Anonymous (14th c.)

Hear me, my dears, this bleeding head
I want to lament before you turn;
listen to this affliction that
Befell me on Good Friday.

Pity me, all of you, old and young,
The feast of blood will be my song.
I had a single son,
It is for him I weep.

A poor woman, I was rudely confused
when I saw my birthright in bitter blood.
Dreadful the moment and bloody the hour
When I saw the infidel foe
beat and torment my beloved son.

Oh, son, sweet and singled-out,
share your pain with your mother
I carried you near my heart, dear son.
I served you faithfully.
Speak to your mother. Console my great grief
now that you leave me and all my hopes.

Small boy, if you were only lower
I could give you a little help.
Your head hangs crooked: I would support it,
your dear blood flows; I would wipe it off.
And now you ask for a drink and a drink I would give you,
but I cannot reach your holy body.

Oh, angel Gabriel
Where is that range of joy
you promised me would never change?
You said: "Virgin, you are filled with love,"
but now I am full of a great grief.
My body has rotted inside me and my bones moulder.

Oh, all you wistful mothers, implore God
that such a sight may never visit your children,
not this which I, poor woman, now witness,
not this which happens to my dearest son,
who suffers pain and yet is guiltless.

I have no other, I shall have no other one,
only you, stretched on the cross, whom I call my son.

Translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer