O son, my only sweetness, my single joy,
look on your weeping mother, and give solace.
Your wounds torment my breast, my mind, my eyes;
what mother, what woman, so happy, so miserable!

Flower of flowers, guide of manners, channel of pardon,
how severe is your torment from the nails.
Ah grief! For this reason the colour of my face flees away;
for this reason there rushes, there flows, the stream of blood.

O so lately given, how quickly you leave me;
O so honourably born, how wretchedly you die.
O what love made for you the vesture of the flesh;
O what bitter payment for how sweet a pledge.

O kindly love of the one thus dying.
O hatred, O crime of the envious people.
O cruel hand of the executioner, O gentle spirit,
amid his torments, of the sufferer.

O true speech of the upright Simeon!
I feel the sword of sorrow which he promised.
Groans, sighs, and tears outwardly
are the signs of inward wounds.

Spare my child, death, but not me; then you alone
will cure me only.
By death, my blessed son, I will be separated from you, if only
you are not crucified.

What a crime, what evil deeds the savage people has committed.
Bonds, whips, wounds, spitting, thorns,
the rest he suffers without fault.
Spare, I beg, my son; crucify his mother,
or fix us together to the post of the cross!
Wrongly he dies alone.

Give back to a most sorrowful woman the living body of the dead,
so that, thus diminished, my torment may be made greater
by kisses, by embracings!
Would that I might so grieve that I might die of grief,
for it is more grievous to die without death
than to perish quickly.

Why are you astonished, wretched nation, that the earth quakes,
the stars are obscured, the sick lament?
If you deprive the sun of light, how shall it shine?
If the sick of medicine, how shall he recover strength?

You set free a murderer, you give Jesus up to execution;
wrongly you maintain peace, there will come rebellion.
When you have experienced famine, slaughter, and pestilences,
you will know Jesus to be dead to you, and Barrabas to be alive.

Blind nation, lamentable nation, do penance,
while Jesus can be swayed to grant you pardon.
The things you have done, as the rivers of the fountains,
may assuage the thirst of all, may wash away all your crimes.

Weep, O daughters of Sion, thankful for such grace,
(the hardships of the young man are for him delights)
for your offences.
Rush into his embraces while he hangs on the tree;
with caresses given in exchange he prepares himself for his lovers
with outstretched arms.

In this alone I rejoice, that I weep for you.
Grant me, I beg, a recompense, mourn a mother’s loss!