Stabat Mater
At the Cross her station keeping
Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
Close to Jesus to the last.
Through her heart, his sorrow sharing,
All his bitter anguish bearing,
Lo! the piercing sword had passed.
O how sad and sore distressed
Was that Mother, highly blessed,
Of the Sole-Begotten One.
Mournful, with heart's prostration,
Mother meek, the bitter Passion
Saw she of her glorious Son.
Who on Christ's dear Mother gazing,
In her trouble 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 sorrow deep?
For his people's sins rejected,
Saw her Jesus unprotected.
Saw with thorns, with scourges rent.
Saw her Son from judgement taken,
Her beloved in death forsaken,
Till his Spirit forth He sent.
Fount of love and holy sorrow,
Mother, may my spirit borrow
Somewhat of your woe profound.
Unto Christ with pure emotion,
Raise my contrite heart's devotion,
To read love in every wound.
Those Five Wounds on Jesus smitten,
Mother! in my heart be written,
Deep as in your own they be.
You, your Savior's Cross did bare,
You, your Son's rebuke did share.
Let me share them both with thee.
In the Passion of my Maker,
Be my sinful soul partaker,
Weep 'til death and weep with you.
Mine with you be that sad station,
There to watch the great salvation,
Wrought upon the atoning Tree.
Virgin, you of virgins fairest,
May the bitter woe Thou bearest
Make on me impression deep.
Thus Christ's dying may I carry,
With Him in His Passion tarry,
And His Wounds in memory keep.
May His Wound both wound and heal me,
He enkindle, cleanse, strengthen me,
By His Cross my hope and stay.
May He, when the mountains quiver,
From that flame which burns forever,
Shield me on the Judgement Day.
Jesus, may Your Cross defend me,
And Your Mother's prayer befriend me;
Let me die in Your embrace.
When to dust my dust returns,
Grant a soul, that to You yearns,
In Your paradise a place.
Amen.
Or
At the cross her station keeping,
stood the mournful mother weeping,
close to Jesus to the last
Through her heart, his sorrow sharing,
all his bitter anguish bearing,
now at length the sword had passed.
Oh how sad and sore distressed
was that mother highly blessed,
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
saw Him hang in desolation,
all with bloody scourges rent.
Bruised, derided, cursed, defiled,
she beheld her tender child,
till His Spirit forth he sent.
O, sweet Mother, fount of love,
touch my spirit from above,
make my heart with yours accord.
Make me feel as you have 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 Saviour crucified.
Let met share with you his pain,
who for all my sins was slain,
who for me in torments died.
Let me mingle tears with you,
mourning Him Who mourned for me,
all the days that I may live.
By the cross with you to stay,
there with you to weep and pray,
this I ask of you to give.
Virgin, of all virgins blest,
O refuse not my request:
let me share your grief divine
Let me, to my latest breath,
in my body bear the death
of that dying Son of yours.
Wounded with his every wound,
steep my soul till it has swooned
in His very blood away.
Be to me, O Virgin, nigh,
lest in flames I burn and die,
in that awful judgment day.
Christ, when you shalt call me hence,
be your mother my defense,
be your cross my victory.
While my body here decays,
may my soul Your goodness praise,
safe in Paradise with You. Amen.