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?