Make ends meet

upwards on thy Son's death agony. To the dear God on high, Ascends thy

piteous sigh, Pleading for his and thy sore misery. Ah, who can know The

torturing woe, The pangs that rack me to the bone? How my poor heart,

without relief, Trembles and throbs, its yearning grief Thou knowest, thou

alone! Ah, wheresoe'er I go, With woe, with woe, with woe, My anguish'd

breast is aching! When all alone I creep, I weep, I weep, I weep, Alas! my

heart is breaking! The flower-pots at my window Were wet with tears of

mine, The while I pluck'd these blossoms, At dawn to deck thy shrine! When