Mother, hail, immersed in woes,
Thou the Martyrs' earliest rose,
Hear my cry, to thee I pray:
Grant that in death's agony,
Putting all my trust in thee,
I may win the just soul's peace.
By that sorrow, like a sword,
At the holy Simeon's word,
Piercing through thy heart and soul:
Grant that in death's agony,
Putting all my trust in thee,
I may win the just soul's peace.
By that sorrow, whelming thee,
When to Egypt thou dost flee,
So to save thy holy Child:
Grant that in death's agony,
Putting all my trust in thee,
I may win the just soul's peace.
By that sorrow, when in tears,
Seeking Jesus midst His peers,
Thou dost find Him once again:
Grant that in death's agony,
Putting all my trust in thee,
I may win the just soul's peace.
By that sorrow, racking thee,
When thy Son's Cross thou dost see
Bowing Him beneath its weight:
Grant that in death's agony,
Putting all my trust in thee,
I may win the just soul's peace.
By that sorrow, fixed in thee,
Whilst He hangs upon the tree,
Thou thyself a victim too:
Grant that in death's agony,
Putting all my trust in thee,
I may win the just soul's peace.
By that sorrow, when thy breast
Now enfolds that body blest
Taken down from off the Cross:
Grant that in death's agony,
Putting all my trust in thee,
I may win the just soul's peace.
By that sorrow, when the tomb
Takes Him from thee to its gloom,
Loving Mother, Virgin blest:
Grant that in death's agony,
Putting all my trust in thee,
I may win the just soul's peace.
Christ, when Thou shalt call me hence,
Be Thy Mother my defense,
Be Thy Cross my victory. Amen.
The Raccolta
How long ago you heard
the words of Simeon,
your dearest son
A sign of contradition,
a sword to pass through you,
and here it is,
that moment so long ago,
dreaded,
feared,
fulfilled.
It is not a long walk
from the judgement place
to the place of execution,
but the way is filled
with the passover crowd,
and the streets are narrow.
how you have to struggle,
trying to follow,
to get close,
to see.
The procession halts for a moment,
and soon you see why,
as he lies there,
bloody,
burdened,
tasting the dust of the street.
An exasperated soldier
begins a kick to motivate him,
but for some reason,
realizes the futility of it,
and begins to yank him up.
For a moment you touch him,
try to comfort him,
feel the sword go deeper into your heart.
How deep the sword must go before it is over.
Susan E. Stone
Oh! on what a sea of sorrow
Was the Virgin-Mother cast,
When her eyes with tears o'erflowing
Gazed upon her Son aghast,
From the bloodstained gibbet taken,
Dying in her arms at last.
In her bitter desolation,
His sweet mouth, His bosom too,
Then His riven side beloved,
Then each hand, both wounded through,
Then His feet, with blood encrimsoned,
Her maternal tears bedew.
She, a hundred times and over,
Strains Him closely to her breast
Heart to Heart, arms arms enfolding,
Are His wounds on her impressed:
Thus, in sorrow's very kisses,
Melts her anguished soul to rest.
Oh, dear Mother! we beseech thee,
By the tears thine eyes have shed,
By the cruel death of Jesus
And His wounds' right royal red,
Make our hearts o'erflow with sorrow
From thy heart's deep fountainhead.
To the Father, Son, and Spirit,
Now we bend on equal knee:
Glory, sempiternal glory,
To the Most High Trinity;
Yea! perpetual praise and honor
Now and through all ages be.
ASCRIBED TO THE SERVITE, CALUSTO PALUMBELLA
Mother of Sorrows
O Mother of Sorrows,
how often I come here and kneel at your feet,
and see those sorrow-filled eyes
staring up
at the suffering and battered
face of your son,
and still,
you are able to take my hand,
and give it that little squeeze
that says, Have courage.
O Mother of Sorrows,
How often I come here,
and weep all my misery out on your shoulder,
filled with guilt and grief and remorse,
knowing full well the burden
that I have laid on your blessed Son's back,
and still you hold me close,
and comfort me.
O Mother of Sorrows,
How often I have come here,
wanting to comfort you
in your sorrow and your loss,
and found myself overcome with remorse and sadness
over what your son
chose to do that I might live,
and find myself comforted by the one I longed to aid.
O Mother of the Word Incarnate,
Thank you for despising not my petitions,
but in your mercy,
hearing and answering me.
Susan E. Stone
Who can ever have a heart so hard that it will not melt on hearing
the most lamentable event which once occurred in the world? There was a
noble and holy Mother Who had an only Son. This Son was the most
amiable that can be imagined --innocent, virtuous, beautiful, Who loved
His Mother most tenderly; so much so that He had never caused her the
least displeasure, but had ever shown her all respect, obedience, and
affection: hence this Mother had placed all her affections on earth in
this Son. Hear, then, what happened. This Son, through envy, was
falsely accused by His enemies; and though the judge knew, and himself
confessed, that He was innocent, yet, that he might not offend His
enemies, he condemned Him to the ignominious death that they had
demanded. This poor Mother had to suffer the grief of seeing that
amiable and beloved Son unjustly snatched from her in the flower of His
age by a barbarous death; for, by
dint of torments and drained of
all His blood, He was made to die on an infamous gibbet in a public
place of execution, and this before her own eyes.
Devout
souls, what say you? Is not this event, and is not this unhappy Mother
worthy of compassion. You already understand of whom I speak. This Son,
so cruelly executed, was our loving Redeemer Jesus; and this Mother was
the Blessed Virgin Mary; Who, for the love she bore us, was willing to
see Him sacrificed to Divine Justice by the barbarity of men. This
great torment, then, which Mary endured for us-a torment which was more
than a thousand deaths deserves both our compassion and our gratitude.
If we can make no other return for so much love, at least let us give a
few moments this day to consider the greatness of the sufferings by
which Mary became the Queen of martyrs; for the sufferings of her great
martyrdom exceeded those of all the martyrs; being, in the first place,
the longest in point of duration; and, in the second place, the
greatest in point of intensity.
St. Alphonsus Ligouri
O Mother of our consolation,
let me lay my head across your lap
and pour out all my griefs and fears and sorrows,
me, just another poor daughter of Eve
with a cup that seems to big to drink,
like so many women across the world
who know that you,
you listen,
you care,
you are our Mother.
O Mary, conceived without sin,
pray for us who have recourse to thee.
O Mother, acquainted with sorrow,
on the darkest day of your life,
when the world you knew came crashing down,
your Son gave you to the world you did not yet know
to be our mother,
O be my mother now,
hold me,
keep me safe,
cover me with your mantle.
O Mary, conceived without sin,
pray for us who have recourse to thee.
Susan E. Stone
O my afflicted Mother! Queen of martyrs and of sorrows, thou didst so bitterly weep over thy Son, who died for my salvation; but what will thy tears avail me if I am lost? By the merit, then, of thy sorrows, obtain me true contrition for my sins, and a real amendment of life, together with constant and tender compassion for the sufferings of Jesus and thy dolours. And if Jesus and thou, being so innocent, have suffered so much for love of me, obtain that at least I, who am deserving of hell, may suffer something for your love. "0 Lady," will I say with St. Bonaventure, "if I have offended thee, in justice wound my heart; if I have served thee, I now ask wounds for my reward. It is shameful to me to see my Lord Jesus wounded, and thee wounded with Him, and myself without a wound." In fine, 0 my Mother, by the grief thou didst experience in seeing thy Son bow down His head and expire on the cross in the midst of so many torments, I beseech thee to obtain me a good death. Ah, cease not, 0 advocate of sinners, to assist my afflicted soul in the midst of the combats in which it will have to engage on its great passage from time to eternity. And as it is probable that I may then have lost my speech, and strength to invoke thy name and that of Jesus, who are all my hope, I do so now; I invoke thy Son and thee to succour me in that last moment; and I say, Jesus and Mary, to you I commend my soul. Amen.
St. Alphonsus Liguori
How thick the crowd must have seemed,
O Lady of Sorrows,
as you threaded your way
in that numbing timelessness
that comes with crisis,
each second seeming to last minutes,
your son,
your son,
his beautiful face,
swollen,
bleeding, battered,
breaking your heart.
How much you must have wanted to scream
NONONONONO!
Don't let this be today,
now,
at this moment,
ever,
even though you knew he was given to you
for just this purpose,
and the sword you felt
had been fortold long ago.
How hard it must have been
not to throw yourself at the guards,
to some how get them to stop,
to let him rest,
to give him a chance
to change his mind
and make this all a nightmare.
And yet, you merely told God
Your will be done,
and continued on,
giving all you had
until the end
and darkness fell.
Consecration to Our Lady of Sorrows
Most holy Virgin and Queen of Martyrs, Mary, would that I could be in Heaven, there to contemplate the honors rendered to thee by the Most Holy Trinity and by the whole Heavenly Court! But since I am still a pilgrim in this vale of tears, receive from me, thy unworthy servant and a poor sinner, the most sincere homage and the most perfect act of vassalage a human creature can offer thee. In thy Immaculate Heart, pierced with so many swords of sorrow, I place today my poor soul forever; receive me as a partaker in thy dolors, and never suffer that I should depart from that Cross on which thy only begotten Son expired for me. With thee, O Mary, I will endure all the sufferings, contradictions, infirmities, with which it will please thy Divine Son to visit me in this life. All of them I offer to thee, in memory of the Dolors which thou didst suffer during thy life, that every thought of my mind, every beating of my heart may henceforward be an act of compassion to thy Sorrows, and of complacency for the glory thou now enjoyest in Heaven. Since then, O Dear Mother, I now compassionate thy Dolors, and rejoice in seeing thee glorified, do thou also have compassion on me, and reconcile me to thy Son Jesus, that I may become thy true and loyal son (daughter); come on my last day and assist me in my last agony, even as thou wert present at the Agony of thy Divine Son Jesus, that from this painful exile I may go to Heaven, there to be made partaker of thy glory.
AMEN.
from The Servite Manual