I imagine we are all familiar with the Stabat Mater (if not, heres a site with both Latin and literal translation) which focuses, somewhat repetitively, on the sorrow, grief, and pain of Mary at the foot of the Cross. Below is a dialogue between Christ on the cross and Mary at its foot that I find even more poignant than the more familiar hymn, and theologically more interesting. It is known from a manuscript that is dated to around the turn of the fourteenth century and where it occurs among many other songs in medieval English otherwise unknown. I have given the first two verses after the modern translation. I used to have an LP record with a beautiful rendition of it is in middle English, but someone (whose Purgatory will be longer on this account) borrowed it and never brought it back. The Anonmyous 4 have recorded it more recently.in their CD The Lily and the Lamb.Mother, stand firm beneath the Rood!Look on your Son in cheerful mood;Joyful, Mother, should you be.

Son, how should I joyful stand?I see your foot, I see your handNailed upon the cruel tree.

Mother, leave your tears behind!I suffer death for all mankind;No mortal sin I suffer for.

Son, your hour of death I see;The sword is at the heart of me,As Simeon prophesied before.

Mother, mercy! Let me die,That Adam and his kind who lieForlorn I may redeem from hell.

Son, my grief is death to know,So grant I die before you go.What words from me could sound so well.

Mother, pity your children allAnd stem your bloody tears that fall:They hurt me more than that I die.

Son, I see your heart-stream flowIn blood to where I stand below;Then how can eyes of mine be dry?

Mother, I shall tell you why:Better that I alone should dieThan all mankind to hell should go.

Son, I see your body lashed,Your feet and hands with deep wounds gashed:No wonder that I suffer woe!

Mother, listen to me well:If I die not, you go to hell;I undergo this death for you.

Son, of my grieving think no ill,Nor blame me that I sorrow still,Your nature is so meek and true.

Mother, now you learn in careWhat grief they have who children bear,What grief it is with child to go.

Son, such grief I know full well:Unless it be the pain of hell,I cannot think of greater woe.

Mother, grieve your mothers woe,For now a mothers lot you know,Though virgin you of spotless life

Son, give help in word and deedTo all who cry to me their needThe foolish woman, maid or wife.

Mother, on earth I may not dwell:My time is come to go to hell;The third day I shall rise again.

Son, beside you I shall go:I die for all your wounds and woeAnd death unequalled for its pain.

When he rose, then died her sorrow:Her bliss began the third morrow:Joyful, Mother, were you then!

Lady, for that bliss begun,Shield us from the Evil One,And beg your Son to pardon sin!

Blessed are you, full of bliss.Heaven may we never miss,Through your Sons most tender might!

For that blood and cruel lossYou shed and suffered on the Cross,Bring us, Lord, to heavens light!

(Translation by Brian Stone in Medieval English Verse (Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1964) 195-96.)'Stond wel, moder, vnder rode,byholt y sone wi glade mode,bly e, moder, myht ou be!''Sone, hou shulde y bli e stonde?Y se in fet, y se in hondenayled to e harde tre.' 'Moder, do wey y wepinge.Y ole de for monkynde,for my gult ole y non.''Sone, y fele e dedestounde,e suert is at myn herte groundeat me byhet Symeon.'

Rev. Joseph A. Komonchak, professor emeritus of the School of Theology and Religious Studies at the Catholic University of America, is a retired priest of the Archdiocese of New York.

Also by this author
© 2024 Commonweal Magazine. All rights reserved. Design by Point Five. Site by Deck Fifty.