Classic Poem

The mother stood with grief confounded,
Near the cross; her tears abounded
While her dear son hanged was,
Through whose soul, her sighs forth venting,
Sadly mourning and lamenting,
Sharpest points of swords did pass.
O how sad and how distress'd,
Was the mother ever-bless'd,
Who God's only son forth-brought:
She in grief and woes did languish,
Quaking to behold what anguish
To her noble son was wrought.