departed further from her. Who, O most loving mother, can recount or
conceive in his mind the immeasurable sorrows of thy soul, or thine
inward woes? Him whom thou didst bring forth without pain, as a
blessed mother free from the curse of our first mother Eve, who
instead of the pains of labour wast filled with joy of spirit, and
who for thy refreshment didst listen to the sweet songs of the
angels as they praised thy Son, thou hast now seen slain before
thine eyes with the greatest cruelty and tyranny. How manifold was
that sorrow of thine, which thou wast permitted to escape at His
birth, when thou sawest thy blessed and only Son hanging in such
torment on the Cross, in the presence of a cruel and furious crowd,
who showered upon Him all the insults and contumely and shame that
they could think of; when thou sawest Him whom thou didst bear in
thy pure womb without feeling the burden, so barbarously stretched
on the Cross, and pierced with nails; when thou sawest His sacred
arms, with which He had so many times lovingly embraced thee,
stretched out so that He could not move them, and covered with red
blood, His adorable head pierced with sharp thorns, and His whole
body one streaming wound, while thou wast not able to staunch or
anoint any of those wounds. What must thy grief have been when thou
sawest Him whom thou hadst so often laid on thy virgin bosom that He
might rest, without anything on which to lean His sacred head; and
Him whom thou hadst nourished with the milk of thy holy breasts, now
vexed with vinegar and gall. O how thy maternal heart was oppressed
when thou beheldest with thy pure eyes that fair face so piteously
marred, so that there was no beauty in it, and nothing by which He
could be distinguished. How did the wave of affliction beat against
and overflow and overwhelm thy soul! Truly, if even a devout man
cannot without unspeakable sorrow and pity revolve in his mind the
Passion of thy Son, what must have been thy Cross, thy affliction,