At the Cross her station keeping, stood the mournful Mother weeping, close to her Son to the last.

Through her heart, His sorrow sharing, all His bitter anguish bearing, now at length the sword has passed.

O how sad and sore distressed was that Mother, highly blest, of the sole-begotten One.

Christ above in torment hangs, she beneath beholds the pangs of her dying glorious Son.

Is there one who would not weep, whelmed in miseries so deep, Christ's dear Mother to behold?

Can the human heart refrain from partaking in her pain, in that Mother's pain untold?

For the sins of His own nation, She saw Jesus wracked with torment, All with scourges rent:

She beheld her tender Child, Saw Him hang in desolation, Till His spirit forth He sent.

O thou Mother! fount of love! Touch my spirit from above, make my heart with thine accord:

Make me feel as thou hast felt; make my soul to glow and melt with the love of Christ my Lord.

Holy Mother! pierce me through, in my heart each wound renew of my Savior crucified:

Let me share with thee His pain, who for all my sins was slain, who for me in torments died.

Let me mingle tears with thee, mourning Him who mourned for me, all the days that I may live:

By the Cross with thee to stay, there with thee to weep and pray, is all I ask of thee to give.

Virgin of all virgins blest!, Listen to my fond request: let me share thy grief divine;

Let me, to my latest breath, in my body bear the death of that dying Son of thine.

about the Sorrows of Mary

s t a b a t m a t er d ol or o s a

Wounded with His every wound, steep my soul till it hath swooned, in His very Blood away;

Be to me, O Virgin, nigh, lest in flames I burn and die, in His awful Judgment Day.

Christ, when Thou shalt call me hence, be Thy Mother my defense, be Thy Cross my victory;

While my body here decays, may my soul Thy goodness praise, Safe in Paradise with Thee.

Translation by Edward Caswall Lyra Catholica (1849) Image: Pieta by William Bouguereau Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

CATHOLIC ARCHDIOCESE OF MELBOURNE

At t

he C

ross

her

stat

ion

keep

ing,

st

ood

the m

ourn

ful M

othe

r wee

ping

, cl

ose t

o he

r Son

to th

e las

t.

Thro

ugh

her h

eart

, His

sorr

ow sh

arin

g,

all H

is bi

tter a

ngui

sh b

eari

ng,

now

at le

ngth

the s

wor

d ha

s pas

sed.

O h

ow sa

d an

d so

re d

istre

ssed

w

as th

at M

othe

r, hi

ghly

ble

st,

of th

e sol

e-be

gotte

n O

ne.

Chr

ist a

bove

in to

rmen

t han

gs,

she b

enea

th b

ehol

ds th

e pan

gs

of h

er d

ying

glo

riou

s Son

.

Is th

ere o

ne w

ho w

ould

not

wee

p,

whe

lmed

in m

iseri

es so

dee

p,

Chr

ist's

dear

Mot

her t

o be

hold

?

Can

the h

uman

hea

rt re

frai

n fr

om p

arta

king

in h

er p

ain,

in

that

Mot

her's

pai

n un

told

?

For t

he si

ns o

f His

own

natio

n,

She s

aw Je

sus w

rack

ed w

ith to

rmen

t, A

ll w

ith sc

ourg

es re

nt:

She b

ehel

d he

r ten

der C

hild

, Sa

w H

im h

ang

in d

esol

atio

n,

Till

His

spir

it fo

rth

He s

ent.

O th

ou M

othe

r! fo

unt o

f lov

e!

Touc

h m

y sp

irit

from

abo

ve,

mak

e my

hear

t with

thin

e acc

ord:

Mak

e me f

eel a

s tho

u ha

st fe

lt;

mak

e my

soul

to g

low

and

mel

t w

ith th

e lov

e of C

hrist

my

Lord

.

Hol

y M

othe

r! p

ierc

e me t

hrou

gh,

in m

y he

art e

ach

wou

nd re

new

of

my

Savi

or cr

ucifi

ed:

Let m

e sha

re w

ith th

ee H

is pa

in,

who

for a

ll m

y sin

s was

slai

n,

who

for m

e in

torm

ents

die

d.

Let m

e min

gle t

ears

with

thee

, m

ourn

ing

Him

who

mou

rned

for m

e,

all t

he d

ays t

hat I

may

live

:

By th

e Cro

ss w

ith th

ee to

stay

, th

ere w

ith th

ee to

wee

p an

d pr

ay,

is al

l I a

sk o

f the

e to

give

.

Virg

in o

f all

virg

ins b

lest

!, Li

sten

to m

y fo

nd re

ques

t: le

t me s

hare

thy

grie

f div

ine;

Let m

e, to

my

late

st b

reat

h,

in m

y bo

dy b

ear t

he d

eath

of

that

dyi

ng S

on o

f thi

ne.

Wou

nded

with

His

ever

y w

ound

, st

eep

my

soul

till

it ha

th sw

oone

d,

in H

is ve

ry B

lood

away

;

Be to

me,

O V

irgin

, nig

h,

lest

in fl

ames

I bu

rn a

nd d

ie,

in H

is aw

ful J

udgm

ent D

ay.

Chr

ist, w

hen

Thou

shal

t cal

l me h

ence

, be

Thy

Mot

her m

y de

fens

e,

be Th

y C

ross

my

vict

ory;

Whi

le m

y bo

dy h

ere d

ecay

s, m

ay m

y so

ul Th

y go

odne

ss p

raise

, Sa

fe in

Par

adise

with

Thee

.

Tran

slatio

n by

Edw

ard

Casw

all

Lyra

Cat

holic

a (1

849)

Im

age:

Piet

a by

Will

iam

Bou

guer

eau

Cour

tesy

of W

ikim

edia

Com

mon

s

abou

t the

Sor

row

s of M

ary

st

ab

at

ma

te

r d

ol

or

os

a

CA

TH

OL

IC A

RC

HD

IOC

ES

E

OF

ME

LB

OU

RN

E