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MARY, THE MOTHER OF JESUS.
By the cross, sad vigil keeping,
Where her Son extended hung ;
Lo! the piercing sword had wrung.
O how sad and sore distressed
Of the sole-begotten One!
Saw she of her glorious Son.
Who, on Christ's fond Mother looking, Such extreme affliction brooking,
Born of woman, would not weep? Who on Christ's fond mother thinking,
Would not share her sorrows deep?
For His people's sins rejected,
Saw with thorns, with scourges rent ;
Till His Spirit forth He sent.
With Thy Mother's deep devotion,
Fount of love, Redeemer kind !
May with Thee acceptance find !
Who hath believed our report ? to whom
Reason confounded stands,
O holy Lamb, slain ere the world was made,
Thyself the sacrifice
But why thus laid upon the cold dank ground,
While on Thy wan worn frame
It is the mighty anguish of Thy soul,
To bear Thy Father's wrath,
It is the proffer'd cup Thy soul affrights :
But love doth master terror's agony :
Calmly He yields Himself
And now unto the scourge, the twined thorn,
A lamb-like victim meek,
Glory to God, His only Son who gave,
And Spirit who came down
Angels come, on joyous pinion,
Down the Heaven's melodious stair ;
Christ is rising,
All in vain the posted station
Of the armed soldiery, —
Ye need not fear,
He Himself, from sleep awaking,
Who spontaneous bears the gloom, Through your seals, and without breaking, Shall come forth and leave the tomb ;
Death cannot hold