Feast of the Seven Dolours of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Come, darkness, spread o'er heaven thy pall,

And hide, O sun, thy face;

While we that bitter death recall,

With all its dire disgrace.

And thou with tearful cheek was there;

But with a heart of steel,

Mary, thou didst his moanings hear,

And all his torments feel.

He hung before thee crucified;

His flesh with scourges rent;

His bloody gashes gaping wide;

His strength and spirit spent.

Thou his dishonour'd countenance

And racking thirst didst see;

By turns the gall, the sponge, the lance

Were agony to thee.

Yet still erect in majesty,

Thou didst the sight sustain;

Oh, more than Martyr! not to die

Amid such cruel pain.

Praise to the blessed Three in One;

And be that courage mine,

Which, sorrowing o'er her only Son,

Did in the Virgin shine.

Amen.

--This evening's Vespers hymn from the old Stanbrook Abbey edition of The Roman Breviary, in, I think, Fr Caswall's translation.