PART I. Act IV. S ECOND S CENE .

O thou, the sorest
Pangs that borest,
On mine look down with face benign.
With anguish eyeing
Thy dear Son dying,
The sword that pierced his heart in thine,
Thou to the Father gazest
And sighs upraisest
For his and for thy mortal pine.
Oh, who can feel, as thou,
Thy agony, that now
Tears me and wears me to the bone.
How this poor heart is choked with tears,
All that it yearns for, all it fears,
Thou knowest, thou, and thou alone.
Still, whereso'er I go,
What woe, what woe, what woe
Is in my bosom aching.
When to my room I creep,
I weep, I weep, I weep—
My heart is breaking.
The bow-pots at my window
I with my tears bedewed,
When over them at morn to pluck
These flowers for thee I stood.
Brightly into my chamber shone
The sun, when dawn grew red;
Already there, all woebegone,
I sat upon my bed.
Help, Suffered divine:
Save me, oh, save
From shame and from the grave.
And thou, the sorest
Pangs that borest,
On mine look down with countenance benign.