Stabat Mater

At the cross her station keeping,

stood the mournful mother weeping,

where he hung, the dying Lord:

for her soul, of joy bereaved,

bowed with anguish, deeply grieved,

felt the sharp and piercing sword.

O how sad and sore distressed

now was she, that Mother blessed

of the sole-begotten One.

Deep the woe of her affliction,

when she saw the crucifixion

of her ever-glorious Son.

Who, on Christ's dear mother gazing,

pierced by anguish so amazing,
born of woman, would not weep?

Who, on Christ's dear Mother thinking,

such a cup of sorrow drinking,

would not share her sorrows deep?

For his people's sins chastised,

she beheld her Son despised,

scourged, and crowned with thorns entwined;

saw him then from judgment taken,

and in death by all forsaken,

till his spirit he resigned.

O good Jesus, let me borrow

something of thy Mother's sorrow,

Fount of love, Redeemer kind;

that my heart fresh ardor gaining,

and a purer love attaining,

may with thee acceptance find.