Classic Poem

Yea, was e'er spectacle, for piteous woe,
Like unto that, when heart-pierced through and through
With dolours that no murmur from it drew,
Mary beheld her Son, in torture slow,
Dying upon the cross — with power to know
And feel as none beside may ever do,
His every torment, while she him did view
The whole world's pain and anguish undergo?
Yet for her grief so great, how far beyond
As heaven from earth, what all hearts else may prove,
Her own sweet joy, who loved with love more fond
Than of all mothers, Mother thrice-blest, she,
Of him, the Author of all joy and love
Throughout all time and for eternity.