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By the cross, sad vigil keeping,
Stood the Mother, doleful weeping,
Where her Son extended hung ;
For her soul, of joy bereaved,
Smit with anguish, deeply grieved,
Lo! the piercing sword had wrung.

O how sad and sore distressed

Now was she, that Mother blessed
Of the sole-begotten One!
Woe-begone, with heart's prostration,
Mother meek, the bitter passion
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,
She her Jesus, unprotected,

Saw with thorns, with scourges rent ;
Saw her Son from judgment taken,
Her belov'd in death forsaken,

Till His Spirit forth He sent.

With Thy Mother's deep devotion,
Make me feel her strong emotion,

Fount of love, Redeemer kind!
That my heart fresh ardour proving,
Thee my God and Saviour loving,

May with Thee acceptance find!


WHO hath believed our report? to whom
Hath Thine arm been reveal'd, Incarnate Lord?
Reason confounded stands,

And Faith silent and mute.

O holy Lamb, slain ere the world was made, And hast Thou from Thy Father's bosom come, Thyself the sacrifice

Dimly shadow'd of old!

But why thus laid upon the cold dank ground,
Oh, why that look of fearful agony,

While on Thy wan worn frame
Thy blood stands, drop by drop?

It is the mighty anguish of Thy soul,
And horror at the weight of other's crimes,
To bear Thy Father's wrath,

And terrors of the lost.

It is the proffer'd cup Thy soul affrights :
Ah! if it be that Thou drink not the whole,
We everlastingly

Must drink, and suck the dregs!

But love doth master terror's agony :

Love strong in death, and His blest Father's will; Calmly He yields Himself

To darkness and to death.

And now unto the scourge, the twined thorn,
The rough rude mockery, and torturing tree,
A lamb-like victim meek,

He bows His holy head.

Glory to God, His only Son who gave,
The Son who died, a living sacrifice,

And Spirit who came down
To light the altar flame.


ANGELS come, on joyous pinion,

Down the Heaven's melodious stair
Triumphing o'er death's dominion,
Up to this our lower air,

Christ is rising,

And doth burst the sepulchre.

All in vain the posted station
Of the armed soldiery,—

All in vain the faithless nation

Sets the seal and watches nigh;

Ye need not fear,

None shall reach where He doth lie!

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

Him born of a Virgin's womb.

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