The Dolors of the Blessed Virgin Mary
BY the Cross, on which suspended.
With his bleeding hands extended,
Hung that Son she so adored,
Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
She whose heart, its silence keeping,
Grief had cleft as with a sword.
Oh! the Mother’s sad affliction —
Mother of all benediction —
Of the sole-begotten One!
Oh, the grieving, sense-bereaving
Of her heaving breast perceiving
The dread sufferings of her Son!
What man is there so unfeeling
Who, his heart to pity steeling,
Could behold that sight unmoved?
Could Christ’s Mother see there weeping,
See the pious Mother keeping
Vigil by the Son she loved.
For His people’s sins atoning,
She saw Jesus writhing, groaning,
’Neath the scourge wherewith He bled;
Saw her loved one, her Consoler,
Dying in His dreadful dolor.
Till at length His spirit fled.
O thou Mother of election!
Fountain of all pure affection!
Make thy grief, thy pain, my own;
Make my heart to God returning,
In the love of Jesus burning,
Feel the fire that thine has known.
