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 Christ above  in  torment hangs, She beneath  beholds  the pangs Of her  dying,  glorious  Son. Is there  one  who  would not  weep Whelmed in  miseries  so deep Christ's dear  Mother  to behold? Can the  human  heart  refrain From  partaking   in  her pain, In  that   Mother's  pain untold? Bruised, derided,  cursed, defiled, She  beheld   her  tender Child, All with  bloody  scourges rent. For the  sins  of  His  own nation Saw Him  hang  in  desolation Till His  spirit  forth  He sent. O thou  Mother! fount of love,