By C. Crochet
How silent and how sad,
That moment of grief,
When the Virgin most pure and sweet
Held the disfigured body of her Son.
Those pierced hands, those wounded feet.
O, abyss of grief!
At the cross she made a prayer
That she would die and He be spared.
Alas, He did not hear her prayer,
So now He’s dead and she must bear
The body of her Son
Her Son is dead. Her light is gone.
How can the Virgin then go on?
How does she not drown in a sea of woes?
A truth of hope the Virgin knows.
In three days time,
Her Son arose.