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.