At the Cross Her Station Keeping

At the cross, her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord;
For her soul of joy bereavèd,
Bowed with anguish, deeply grievèd,
Felt the sharp and piercing sword.

Oh, how sad and sore distressèd
Now was she, that mother blessèd
Of the sole begotten One;
Deep the woe of her affliction,
When she saw the crucifixion
Of her ever glorious Son.

Who, on Christ’s dear mother gazing
Pierced by anguish so amazing
Born of woman, would not weep?
Who, on Christ’s dear mother thinking
Such a cup of sorrow drinking
Would not share her sorrows deep?

For His people’s sins chastisèd,
She beheld her Son despisèd,
Scourged, and crowned with thorns entwined;
Saw Him then from judgment taken,
And in death by all forsaken,
Till His Spirit He resigned.

Jesu, may her deep devotion
Stir in me the same emotion,
Fount of love, Redeemer kind,
That my heart fresh ardor gaining,
And a purer love attaining,
May with Thee acceptance find.

Indeed, how can we not share her sorrows? When I saw The Passion of the Christ, which came out the year after Tim died. I was overwhelmed by the whole thing. And what affected me most deeply was Mary, his Mother. I was still new in my grief, and I very much related to her as a mother, her sorrow and her pain. The way she rushed to him when he fell as a child, and the sorrow all over her face as she watched her son die. To her, He was more than God incarnate, more than the Messiah, more than Jesus the Christ. He was her son. So much did she have to suffer. 

Looking forward to saying the Hallelujahs tomorrow, and savoring the joy and the hope of the resurrection, and  what that means for me in my own journey of grief.

Peace.