lovely invention, then, that he should thus commend mothers to his
mother, telling her to judge of the pains of motherhood by those which
she now endured. Still he fails to turn aside her thoughts. She is
thinking still only of her own and her son's suffering, while he
continues bent on making her think of others, until, at last, forth comes
her prayer for all women. This seems to me a tenderness grand as
exquisite.

The outburst of the chorus of the Faithful in the last stanza but one,--

When he rose, then fell her sorrow,

is as fine as anything I know in the region of the lyric.


"Stand well, mother, under rood;[1] _the cross._
Behold thy son with gladé mood; _cheerful._
Blithe mother mayst thou be."
"Son, how should I blithé stand?
I see thy feet, I see thy hand
Nailéd to the hard tree."

"Mother, do way thy wepynde: _give over thy weeping._
I tholé death for mankind-- _suffer._
For my guilt thole I none."
"Son, I feel the dede stounde; _death-pang._
The sword is at my heart's ground _bottom._
That me byhet Simeon." _foreshowed._

"Mother, mercy! let me die,