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 Not that this Thou feltest more Than that bitter tension: But that thirst Thou wouldst express For lost man's invention.

Calling on Thy Name Thy last breath was spended: And Thy Spirit in His Hands Gently was commended: With a loud and mighty cry Then Thy Head was bended: And the work, that brought Thee down, Of Salvation ended.

But by heart and thought of man That is past conceiving How the Virgin Mother's soul Inmostly was grieving When the soldier's bitter lance That dear Side was cleaving: Cruel mark upon His frame Of its passage leaving.

That blest form could feel no more Whence had life departed: 'Twas the Mother's anguished soul 'Neath the Wound that smarted: