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 That assuréd, whole, and curéd, Free from wounds and evil taints, We, translated, may be sated With the glories of the Saints.

the Mother stands deploring, By the Cross her tears out-pouring, Where her son expiring hangs. For her gentle spirit groaning. Anguish-smitten and bemoaning Rend the sword's most cruel pangs.

O! how downcast and distresséd Was the Mother ever-blesséd Of the sole-begotten One, Who lamented and who grievéd, Mother mild, as she perceivéd Torments rack her heav'nly Son.

Who could keep from tears of anguish, Could he see Mother languish Thus in grief and suffering wild? Who his agony could smother, Could he see the gentle Mother Sorrowing with her holy child?