The sorrows of Mary

Mary mother, come and see thy sweet son nailed on a tree. This blessed babe that thou hast born, his blessed body is all to-torne. To buy us again that were forlorn, his head is crowned with a thorn. Crowned alas with thorn or brier. Why should my son thus lie here? To me this is a careful cheere. Sweet son, think on thy mother dear. The common crowd with their falsehood, under their feet they gan him tread. They wounded him both hand and head. They left him not till he was dead. Alas, now may I cry. Why might I not with my son die? My heart is replenished with pity, fulfilled with pain most piteously. Mary, mother, grieve you not ill. From heaven he came this to fulfil. Because mankind it should not spill, he took his death with perfect goodwill. (15th cent. English)