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At The Cross, Her Station Keeping

At the cross, her station keeping,

Stood the mournful mother weeping,

Where He hung, the dying Lord;

For her soul of joy bereavèd,

Bowed with anguish, deeply grievèd,

Felt the sharp and piercing sword.

Oh, how sad and sore distressèd

Now was she, that mother blessèd

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 chastisèd,

She beheld her Son despisèd,

Scourged, and crowned with thorns entwined;

Saw Him then from judgment taken,

And in death by all forsaken,

Till His Spirit He resigned.

Jesu, may her deep devotion

Stir in me the same emotion,

Fount of love, Redeemer kind,

That my heart fresh ardor gaining,

And a purer love attaining,

May with Thee acceptance find.

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