At a Wayside Shrine
Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of our Lord,
Who in thine own heart felt the stabbing sword,
Is there no grace thy pity can afford?
Thou who hast suffered, since thou, too, hast borne,
In thine own flesh felt scourge, and nail, and thorn —
Not e'en thy sacred heart like mine was torn.
Jesus, thy son, once carried in thy side —
Didst thou not swoon when He was crucified?
Yet as our Blessed Sacrifice He died,
But this my son — my Fran├ºois — day by day
Forgets his God, and sins his life away
With hell beyond — Mother! to thee I pray!
Not his the guilt — it was some fault in me
Drawn from my breast; mine let the burden be —
Mine all the pain, but let my son go free!
Grant thou the prayer I make before thy shrine,
Oh, Holy Mary, Mother most divine —
Grant thou my prayer, and be all glory thine!
Who in thine own heart felt the stabbing sword,
Is there no grace thy pity can afford?
Thou who hast suffered, since thou, too, hast borne,
In thine own flesh felt scourge, and nail, and thorn —
Not e'en thy sacred heart like mine was torn.
Jesus, thy son, once carried in thy side —
Didst thou not swoon when He was crucified?
Yet as our Blessed Sacrifice He died,
But this my son — my Fran├ºois — day by day
Forgets his God, and sins his life away
With hell beyond — Mother! to thee I pray!
Not his the guilt — it was some fault in me
Drawn from my breast; mine let the burden be —
Mine all the pain, but let my son go free!
Grant thou the prayer I make before thy shrine,
Oh, Holy Mary, Mother most divine —
Grant thou my prayer, and be all glory thine!
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