My most merciful Lady,
what can I say about the fountains
that flowed from your most pure eyes
when you saw your only Son before you,
bound, beaten, and hurt?
What do I know of the flood
that drenched your matchless face,
when you beheld your Son,
your Lord, and your God,
stretched on the cross without guilt,
when the flesh of your flesh
was cruelly butchered by wicked me?
How can I judge what sobs
troubled your most pure breast when you heard,
“Woman, behold your son,”
and the disciple, “Behold, your Mother,”
when you received as a son
the disciple in place of the master,
the servant for the Lord?