Reflections on Each of the Seven Sorrows of Mary in Particular

On the First Sorrow — The Prophecy of St. Simeon

In this valley of tears every person is born to weep, and each must suffer the evils that befall him day by day. But how much more tormenting life would be if everyone also knew the future evils that were to afflict him! Too unhappy would be the one, says Seneca, to whom such a lot should fall: Calamitosus esset animus futuri praescius, et ante miserias miser.

The Lord uses this compassion with us: he does not let us see the crosses that await us, so that if we must bear them, at least we bear them only once. But he did not show this compassion to Mary, whom God willed to be the Queen of Sorrows and altogether like her Son: she had to see always before her eyes and continually suffer all the sorrows that awaited her, and these were the sufferings of the Passion and death of her beloved Jesus. Behold St. Simeon in the temple, who, after receiving the divine Child in his arms, foretells to her that this Son of hers was to be the sign of all the contradictions and persecutions of men: Positus est hic in signum cui contradicetur; and that therefore the sword of sorrow was to pierce her soul: Et tuam ipsius animam doloris gladius pertransibit (Lk. II).

The same Virgin told St. Mechtilde that at this announcement of St. Simeon all her joy was turned to sadness: Omnis laetitia mea ad illa verba in maerorem conversa est. For, as was revealed to St. Teresa, the blessed Mother, although she already knew beforehand of the sacrifice that was to be made of the life of her Son for the salvation of the world, then came to know in particular and more distinctly the sufferings and the cruel death that awaited her poor Son. She knew that he was to be contradicted — contradicted in everything: contradicted in his doctrine, for instead of being believed he was to be accounted a blasphemer for teaching that he was the Son of God, as the impious Caiaphas declared, saying: Blasphemavit, reus est mortis (Jn. IX, 22). Contradicted in esteem, for though he was noble, of royal lineage, he was despised as a commoner: Nonne hic est fabri filius? (Mt. XIII, 55). Nonne hic est faber, filius Mariae? (Mk. VI, 3). He was wisdom itself, and was treated as an ignorant man: Quomodo hic litteras scit, cum non didicerit? (Jn. VII, 15); as a false prophet: Et velaverunt eum, et percutiebant faciem eius... dicentes: Prophetiza, quis est qui te percussit? (Lk. XXII, 64). Treated as a madman: Insanit, quid eum auditis? (Jn. X, 20); as a drunkard, a glutton, and a friend of sinners: Ecce homo devorator et bibens vinum, amicus publicanorum et peccatorum (Lk. VII, 34); as a sorcerer: In principe daemoniorum eiicit daemonia (Mt. IX, 34); as a heretic and one possessed by a devil: Nonne bene dicimus nos, quia Samaritanus es tu, et daemonium habes? (Jn. VIII, 48). In short, Jesus was held to be a man so notorious a criminal that no trial was needed to condemn him, as they told Pilate: Si non esset hic malefactor, non tibi tradidissemus eum (Jn. XVIII, 30). Contradicted in his soul, for even his Eternal Father, to give place to divine justice, contradicted him by refusing to hear him when he prayed: Pater mi, si possibile est, transeat a me calix iste (Mt. XXVI, 39); and abandoned him in the hands of fear, of weariness, and of sadness, so that the afflicted Lord said: Tristis est anima mea usque ad mortem (Mt. XXVI, 38); and he was brought by his interior anguish to sweat living blood. Contradicted and persecuted finally in his body and in his life; for it suffices to say that he was torn in all his sacred members — in his hands, his feet, his face, his head, and his entire body — until he died of sorrow, drained of blood and covered with shame upon an infamous gibbet.

David, in the midst of all his royal delights and grandeur, when the Prophet Nathan announced to him the death of his son — Filius qui natus est tibi, morte morietur (II Sam. XII, 14) — could not find peace; he wept, he fasted, he slept on the ground. Mary received the news of her Son's death with supreme peace, and with peace she continued to endure it; but what sorrow she must have continually suffered in seeing always before her eyes that lovable Son, in hearing him speak those words of eternal life, in observing his most holy ways! Abraham endured a great torment during those three days when he had to accompany his beloved Isaac, knowing that he must lose him. O God, not for three days, but for thirty-three years, Mary had to endure a similar sorrow. What do I say, similar? A sorrow so much greater, as the Son of Mary was more lovable than the son of Abraham. The Blessed Virgin herself revealed to St. Bridget (Bk. 6, Revelations, ch. 9) that while she lived on earth there was not a single hour in which this sorrow did not pierce her. Quoties, she continued to say, aspiciebam Filium meum, quoties involvebam eum pannis, quoties videbam eius manus et pedes, toties animus meus quasi novo dolore absorptus est; quia cogitabam quomodo crucifigeretur. Abbot Rupert contemplates Mary, who while nursing her Son said to him: Fasciculus myrrhae dilectus meus mihi, inter ubera mea commorabitur (Cant. I, 12). Ah my Son, I hold you close in my arms because you are so dear to me; but the dearer you are to me, the more you become a bundle of myrrh and of sorrow, when I think of your sufferings. Mary considered, says St. Bernardine, that the strength of the saints was to grow faint; the beauty of paradise was to be disfigured; the Lord of the world was to be bound as a criminal; the Creator of all things was to be livid with blows; the Judge of all was to be sentenced; the glory of the heavens was to be despised; the King of kings was to be crowned with thorns and treated as a mock king.

Father Engelgrave writes that it was revealed to St. Bridget that the afflicted Mother, already knowing how much her Son was to suffer — Eum lactans cogitabat de felle et aceto; quando fasciis involvebat, funes cogitabat quibus ligandus erat; quando gestabat, cogitabat in crucem confixum; quando dormiebat, cogitabat mortuum. And whenever she dressed him in his tunic, she thought that one day it would be torn from him to crucify him; and when she looked at those sacred hands and feet, she thought of the nails that were to pierce them. Mary said to St. Bridget: Oculi mei replebantur lacrimis et cor meum torquebatur dolore.

The Evangelist said that Jesus Christ, as he advanced in years, also advanced in wisdom and grace before God and men: Et Iesus proficiebat sapientia et aetate et gratia apud Deum et homines (Lk. II, 52). This is understood to mean that he advanced in wisdom and grace before men as to their estimation, and before God in that — as St. Thomas explains — all his works would have continued to increase his merit, had not the fullness of grace already been conferred upon him from the beginning by reason of the hypostatic union. But if Jesus grew in esteem and love before others, how much more did he grow before Mary? But, O God, the more her love increased, the more her sorrow grew at having to lose him by so cruel a death; and the nearer the time of the Son's Passion drew, the more that sword of sorrow foretold her by St. Simeon pierced the Mother's heart with ever greater pain. So indeed the angel revealed to St. Bridget, saying: Ille doloris gladius Virgini omni hora tanto se propius approximabat, quanto Filius Passionis tempori magis appropinquabat.

If then our King Jesus and his most holy Mother did not refuse for love of us to suffer so atrocious a pain throughout their entire lives, it is unreasonable for us to complain when we suffer some little. Once Jesus crucified appeared to Sister Maddalena Orsini, a Dominican, while she had been suffering a long tribulation, and he encouraged her to remain with him on the cross with that trial that afflicted her. Sister Maddalena, complaining, replied: "Lord, you suffered on the cross for only three hours, but I have been bearing this cross for years." Then the Redeemer answered: "Ah, ignorant one, what are you saying? From the first instant I was conceived, I suffered in my heart all that I later endured on the cross in death." When, then, we too suffer some affliction and complain, let us imagine that Jesus and his Mother Mary are saying the same to us.

Example

Father Reviglione of the Society of Jesus relates that a certain young man had the devotion of visiting every day an image of Our Lady of Sorrows, which bore seven swords in its breast. One night the wretch fell into a mortal sin; going the next morning to visit the image, he looked at the breast of the Blessed Virgin and saw, not seven, but eight swords. While he was gazing at this, he heard a voice that told him that his sin had added the eighth sword to the heart of Mary. Whereupon, moved and contrite, he went at once to confession, and through the intercession of his advocate he recovered divine grace.

Prayer

Ah, my blessed Mother, not just one sword, then, but as many swords as my sins have been, have I driven into your heart. Ah, my Lady, it is not you, the innocent one, but I, guilty of so many crimes, who deserve the punishment. But since you have chosen to suffer so much for me, obtain for me through your merits a great sorrow for my sins and patience in bearing the trials of this life, which will always be light compared to what I deserve, for I have so many times merited hell. Amen.

On the Second Sorrow — The Flight of Jesus into Egypt

Like a deer that, wounded by an arrow, carries its pain wherever it goes — always bearing the arrow that pierced it — so the divine Mother, after the dire prophecy of St. Simeon, as we saw in the reflection on the first sorrow, always carried with her the pain of the continual memory of the Passion of her Son. Hailgrin, explaining that passage of the Canticle — Et comae capitis tui sicut purpura regis vincta canalibus (ch. VII, 5) — says that these purple tresses of Mary were the continual thoughts of the Passion of Jesus, which made her constantly see as present the blood that would one day flow from his wounds: Mens tua, o Maria, et cogitationes tuae tinctae in sanguine dominicae Passionis, sic affectae semper fuere, quasi recenter viderent sanguinem de vulneribus profluentem. So the Son himself was this arrow in the heart of Mary, who the more lovable he showed himself to be, the more he wounded her with the sorrow of having to lose him by so cruel a death. Let us now consider the second sword of sorrow, which wounded her in the flight she was forced to make with her infant Jesus into Egypt, because of the persecution of Herod.

Herod, having already heard that the awaited Messiah was born, foolishly feared that the child would take away his kingdom; hence St. Fulgentius rebukes his folly, saying: Quid est quod sic turbaris, Herodes? Rex iste qui natus est, non venit reges pugnando superare, sed moriendo mirabiliter subiugare. The wicked king therefore awaited news from the holy Magi as to where the newborn King could be found, in order to take his life; but seeing himself deceived by the Magi, he ordered the death of all the infants who were then in and around Bethlehem. Hence it was that the angel appeared in a dream to St. Joseph and commanded him: Surge et accipe puerum et Matrem eius, et fuge in Aegyptum (Mt. II, 13). Gerson holds that immediately that same night St. Joseph told Mary, and taking the infant Jesus they set out on the journey, as seems clearly gathered from the same Gospel: Qui consurgens accepit puerum et matrem eius nocte, et secessit in Aegyptum (Mt. II, 14). "O God," said Mary then, as Blessed Albert the Great contemplates, "must he who is the Savior of the world flee from men?" Debet fugere qui Salvator est mundi? And the afflicted Mother then perceived that the prophecy of Simeon concerning her Son was already beginning to be fulfilled: Positus est hic... in signum cui contradicetur, seeing that he was barely born before he was persecuted to the death. What sorrow it must have been to Mary's heart, wrote St. John Chrysostom, to hear herself commanded to that harsh exile together with her Son: Fuge a tuis ad extraneos, a templo ad daemonum fana. Quae maior tribulatio, quam quod recens natus a collo matris pendens cum ipsa matre paupercula fugere cogatur?

Each one can then consider how much Mary suffered on this journey. The road was very long to reach Egypt; authors commonly hold with Barrada that it was four hundred miles, so the journey lasted at least thirty days. The road, moreover, as St. Bonaventure describes it, was rough, unknown, wooded, and little frequented by people: Viam silvestrem, obscuram, asperam, et inhabitatam. The season was winter, so they had to travel through snow, rain, and wind, over broken and muddy roads. Mary was then about fifteen years old — a delicate maiden, not accustomed to such journeys. Nor did they have anyone to attend them: Ioseph et Maria, said St. Peter Chrysologus, non habent famulum, non ancillam; ipsi domini et famuli. O God, what a sight for compassion it was to see that tender young maiden with that newborn child in her arms, going as fugitives through the world! St. Bonaventure asks: Quomodo faciebant de victu? Ubi nocte quiescebant? Quomodo hospitabantur? And what could they eat but a crust of hard bread brought by St. Joseph or begged as alms? Where were they to sleep on this journey — especially in those two hundred miles of desert, where, as authors report, there were neither houses nor inns — if not on the sand or under some tree in the forest, in the open air, at risk from robbers or from the wild beasts that abound in Egypt? Oh, whoever had encountered these three great personages of the world — for whom would he have taken them, if not for three poor beggars and vagabonds?

They dwelt in Egypt in a town called Matarea, as Brocardus and Jansenius hold, although St. Anselm says they lived in the city of Heliopolis, formerly called Memphis and now Cairo. And here let us consider the great poverty they had to endure during the seven years they spent there, as St. Antoninus asserts with St. Thomas and others. They were foreigners, unknown, without income, without money, without relatives; they could barely support themselves by their poor labors: Cum enim essent egeni, wrote St. Basil, manifestum est quod sudores frequentabant, necessaria vitae inde ibi quaerentes. Landolph of Saxony further writes — and let this be said for the consolation of the poor — that Mary was there in such poverty that sometimes she did not even have a little bread when her Son, pressed by hunger, asked for it: Aliquando Filius famen patiens panem petiit, nec unde daret Mater habuit.

After Herod had died, St. Matthew narrates that once more the angel appeared in a dream to St. Joseph and commanded him to return to Judea. Speaking of this return, St. Bonaventure meditates upon the greater hardship of the Blessed Virgin, because of the fatigue that Jesus, now about seven years of age, had to endure on this journey; for at that age, says the saint: Sic magnus est, ut portari non valeat, et sic parvus, quod per se ire non potest.

To see, then, Jesus and Mary going as fugitives, wandering through this world, teaches us that we too must live on this earth as pilgrims, without attaching ourselves to the goods the world offers us, since we must soon leave them and pass on to eternity: Non habemus hic manentem civitatem, sed futuram inquirimus (Heb. XIII, 14). To which St. Augustine adds: Hospes es, vides et transis. It further teaches us to embrace the cross, for one cannot live in this world without the cross. In this regard, Blessed Veronica of Binasco, an Augustinian, was carried in spirit to accompany Mary with the infant Jesus on this journey to Egypt; at the end of which the divine Mother said to her: "Daughter, you have seen with how many hardships we arrived in this land; now know that no one receives graces without suffering." And whoever wishes to feel the sufferings of this life less keenly must take Jesus and Mary with him: Accipe puerum et matrem eius. For whoever carries this Son and this Mother in his heart with love, all sufferings become light — even sweet and dear. Let us, then, love Mary and console her by welcoming into our hearts her Son, who continues even today to be persecuted by men with their sins.

Example

One day the Most Holy Mary appeared to Blessed Colette, a Franciscan, and showed her the infant Jesus in a basin, cut to pieces; and then she said: "This is how sinners continually treat my Son, renewing his death and my sorrows; daughter, pray for them, that they may be converted." To this is added another vision had by the Venerable Sister Giovanna of Jesus and Mary, also a Franciscan. One day, while she was meditating precisely on the infant Jesus persecuted by Herod, she heard a great commotion, as of armed men pursuing someone; and then she saw before her a most beautiful child, all breathless, fleeing, who said to her: "My Giovanna, help me, hide me: I am Jesus of Nazareth; I am fleeing from sinners who want to kill me, and they pursue me like Herod. You, save me."

Prayer

So then, O Mary, even after your Son died at the hands of men who persecuted him unto death, not even these ungrateful ones have ceased to persecute him with their sins and to continue to afflict you, sorrowful Mother? And one of them, O God, have I also been? Ah, my sweetest Mother, obtain for me tears to weep for so great an ingratitude. And then, by the sufferings you endured on the journey to Egypt, assist me with your help on the journey I am making toward eternity, so that in the end I may come with you to love my persecuted Savior in the homeland of the blessed. Amen.

On the Third Sorrow — The Loss of Jesus in the Temple

The Apostle St. James wrote that our perfection consists in the virtue of patience: Patientia autem opus perfectum habet, ut sitis perfecti et integri, in nullo deficientes (Jas. I, 4). The Lord, having given us the Virgin Mary as a model of perfection, had to fill her with sufferings, so that we might admire and imitate her heroic patience. Among the greatest sorrows that the divine Mother endured in her life was this one we are to consider today: when she lost her Son in the temple.

One who is born blind feels little sorrow at being deprived of the light of day; but for one who once had eyes and enjoyed the light, it is far too hard then, with blindness, to find himself deprived of it. And similarly, those unhappy souls who, blinded by the mud of this earth, have known God but little, feel little pain at not finding him; but one who, illumined by heavenly light, has been made worthy of finding through love the sweet presence of the Supreme Good — oh God, such a one grieves greatly when he sees himself deprived of it. Let us then see how painful it must have been for Mary, who was accustomed to enjoying continually the most sweet presence of her Jesus, when this third sword struck her — when, having lost him in Jerusalem, she was separated from him for three days.

St. Luke narrates in chapter II that the Blessed Virgin, together with her spouse Joseph and Jesus, used to visit the temple every year for the solemnity of the Passover. Once she went when her Son was twelve years old; but Jesus having remained in Jerusalem, she did not notice it, believing he had gone with the company of others. Hence when she arrived at Nazareth and asked for her Son, not finding him there, she returned at once to Jerusalem to seek him — and she did not find him until after three days. Now think what anguish this afflicted Mother must have felt during those three days, in which she went about everywhere asking for her Son, like the bride of the Canticle: Num quem diligit anima mea vidistis? (Cant. III, 3), and could get no news of him. Oh, with how much greater tenderness Mary, weary from searching but without having found her beloved, must have said what Reuben said of his brother Joseph: Puer non comparet, et ego quo ibo? My Jesus does not appear; I no longer know what to do to find him; but where shall I go without my treasure? Indeed, weeping continually for those three days, she repeated with David: Fuerunt mihi lacrimae meae panes die ac nocte, dum dicitur mihi quotidie: ubi est Deus tuus? (Ps. XLI, 4). Hence Pelbartus rightly writes that during those nights the afflicted Mother did not sleep at all, weeping and praying always to God to help her find her Son: Illas noctes insomnes duxit in lacrimis, Deum deprecando ut daret illi reperire Filium. And often during this time she repeated to the Son himself the words of the Bride, as St. Bernard applies them: Indica mihi ubi cubes, ubi pascas in meridie, ne vagari incipiam (Cant. I, 6): My Son, let me know where you are, so that I may no longer wander, seeking you in vain.

There are those who say that this sorrow was not only among the greatest that Mary had in her life, but that it was the greatest and most bitter of all, and not without reason. First, in her other sorrows Mary had Jesus with her; she suffered at the prophecy made to her by St. Simeon in the temple, she suffered in the flight to Egypt, but always with Jesus. In this sorrow she suffers far from Jesus, without knowing where he is: Lumen oculorum meorum, et ipse non est mecum (Ps. XXXVII, 11). So she said, weeping: Ah, the light of my eyes, my dear Jesus, is no longer with me; he lives far from me and I do not know where. Origen says that because of the love this holy Mother bore her Son, she suffered more in this loss of Jesus than any martyr ever suffered in death: Vehementer doluit quia vehementer amabat. Plus doluit de eius amissione, quam aliquis martyr dolorem sentiat de animae a corpore separatione. Ah, those three days were far too long for Mary! They seemed to her three centuries — days all bitter, with no one who could console her. And who can console me, she said with Jeremiah, if the one who can console me is far from me? And therefore my eyes do not cease to weep: Idcirco ego plorans et oculus meus deducens aquas, quia longe factus est a me consolator meus (Lam. I, 16). And with Tobias she repeated: Quale gaudium mihi erit, qui in tenebris sedeo et lumen caeli non video? (Tob. VI, 11).

Second, in her other sorrows Mary well understood their cause and their purpose — namely, the Redemption of the world and the divine will; but in this sorrow she did not know the reason for her Son's absence. The sorrowful Mother grieved at seeing Jesus separated from her, while her humility, says Lanspergius, made her believe herself unworthy to remain near him to attend him on this earth and to care for so great a treasure: Tristabatur ex humilitate, quia arbitrabatur se indignam cui tam pretiosus commissus esset thesaurus. And who knows — perhaps she thought within herself — have I not served him as I should? Have I committed some negligence, for which he has left me? Quaerebant eum, ne forte reliquisset eos, wrote Origen. It is certain that there is no greater pain for a soul that loves God than the fear of having displeased him. And so it was that Mary complained in no other sorrow but this, lamenting lovingly to Jesus after she found him: Fili, quid fecisti nobis sic?... Pater tuus et ego dolentes quaerebamus te (Lk. II, 48). By these words she did not wish to reprove Jesus, as the heretics blaspheme, but only to show him the sorrow she had felt at his absence, out of the love she bore him. Non erat increpatio, says the Blessed Dionysius the Carthusian, sed amorosa conquestio. In short, so painful was this sword to the Virgin's heart that Blessed Benvenuta, one day desiring and praying the holy Mother to let her share in this sorrow, Mary allowed her to see the infant Jesus in her arms; but while Benvenuta was enjoying the sight of that most beautiful child, she suddenly found herself deprived of it. So great was the pain the blessed one felt that she begged Mary, for pity's sake, not to let her die of sorrow. The Blessed Virgin appeared to her again after three days and said: "Now know, my daughter, that your sorrow was but a small part of mine, which I felt when I lost my Son."

This sorrow of Mary should first serve as comfort to those souls who stand desolate and no longer enjoy the sweet presence of the Lord they once enjoyed. Let them weep, yes, but let them weep in peace, as Mary wept over the absence of her Son. And let them take courage not to fear that they have therefore lost divine grace, from what God himself said to St. Teresa: "No one is lost without knowing it; and no one is deceived without wishing to be deceived." If the Lord departs from the sight of a soul that loves him, he does not therefore depart from its heart. He often hides himself in order to be sought by that soul with greater desire and love. But whoever wishes to find Jesus must seek him not amid the delights and pleasures of the world, but amid crosses and mortifications, as Mary sought him: Dolentes quaerebamus te, as she said to her Son. Disce a Maria quaerere Iesum, wrote Origen.

Moreover, in this world we should seek no other good but Jesus. Job was not unhappy when he lost everything on this earth — possessions, children, health, honor, even descending from his throne to a dunghill — because he had God with him; even then he was happy. Speaking of him, St. Augustine said: Perdiderat illa quae dederat Deus, sed habebat ipsum Deum. Truly unhappy and wretched are those souls who have lost God. If Mary wept over the absence of her Son for three days, how much more should sinners weep, who have lost divine grace, to whom God says: Vos non populus meus, et ego non ero vester (Hos. I, 9). For this is what sin does — it separates the soul from God: Peccata vestra diviserunt inter vos et Deum vestrum (Is. LIX, 2). And hence it happens that even the rich in earthly goods, having lost God, find everything — even on this earth — to be smoke and torment, as Solomon confessed: Ecce universa vanitas et afflictio spiritus (Eccl. I, 14). But the greatest misfortune of these poor blind souls, says St. Augustine, is that if they lose an ox, they do not fail to go after it; if they lose a sheep, they spare no effort to find it; if they lose a donkey, they do not rest. And then they lose the Supreme Good, which is God, and they eat and drink and rest: Perdit homo bovem, et post eum vadit; perdit ovem, et sollicite eam quaerit; perdit asinum et non quiescit. Perdit homo Deum, et comedit et bibit et quiescit.

Example

It is noted in the Annual Letters of the Society of Jesus that in the Indies, a young man, about to leave his room to commit a sin, heard a voice say: "Stop, where are you going?" He turned, and saw a raised image of Our Lady of Sorrows that was placed there, which drew the dagger from its breast and then said to him: "Take this dagger and wound me rather than wound my Son with this sin." At these words the young man prostrated himself on the ground, and, entirely contrite and weeping profusely, he asked God and the Virgin for pardon of his sin, and he obtained it.

Prayer

O blessed Virgin, why do you grieve seeking your lost Son? Do you not know where he is? Do you not see that he is in your heart? Do you not know that he feeds among the lilies? You yourself said: Dilectus meus mihi et ego illi, qui pascitur inter lilia (Cant. II, 16). These your thoughts and affections — all humble, pure, and holy — are all lilies that invite the divine Spouse to dwell in you.

Ah Mary, you sigh for Jesus — you who love nothing but Jesus? Let me sigh for him, and so many sinners who do not love him and who, by offending him, have lost him. My most lovable Mother, if through my fault your Son has not yet returned to my soul, do you bring it about that I may find him. I know well that he lets himself be found by those who seek him: Bonus est Dominus animae quaerenti illum (Lam. III, 25). But make me seek him as I ought to seek him. You are the door through which all find Jesus; through you I hope to find him too. Amen.

On the Fourth Sorrow — The Meeting with Jesus on the Way to Death

St. Bernardine says that to form some idea of the great sorrow of Mary in losing her Jesus by death, one must consider the love that this Mother bore this Son.

All mothers feel the sufferings of their children as their own; therefore the Canaanite woman, when she begged the Savior to free her daughter from the devil that tormented her, said to him that he should have pity on her, the mother, more than on her daughter: Miserere mei, Domine fili David; filia mea male a daemone vexatur (Mt. XV, 22). But what mother ever loved any son as much as Mary loved Jesus? He was her only Son, raised with so many hardships; a Son most lovable and most loving of his Mother; a Son who was at once her Son and her God, who had come into the world to kindle in all the holy fire of divine love, as he himself declared: Ignem veni mittere in terram, et quid volo nisi ut accendatur? (Lk. XII, 49). Think, then, what a flame it must have kindled in that pure heart, empty of every worldly affection, of his holy Mother! In short, the Blessed Virgin herself said to St. Bridget that because of her love, unum erat cor meum et cor Filii mei. That blend of servant and mother, of son and God, made in Mary's heart a blaze composed of a thousand blazes. But then this entire fire of love, at the time of the Passion, was converted into a sea of sorrow; hence St. Bernardine said: Omnes dolores mundi, si essent simul coniuncti, non essent tanti quantus dolor gloriosae Mariae. Yes, for this Mother, as St. Lawrence Justinian wrote: Quanto dilexit tenerius, tanto est vulnerata profundius: the more tenderly she loved, the more deeply she was wounded — especially when she met her Son, already condemned to death, carrying his cross to the place of his execution. And this is the fourth sword of sorrow that we are to consider today.

As the time of the Lord's Passion drew near, the Blessed Virgin revealed to St. Bridget that her eyes were always full of tears, thinking of the beloved Son she was about to lose on this earth; and therefore she said also that a cold sweat kept running down her limbs, because of the fear that assailed her at that approaching spectacle of sorrow: Imminente Passione Filii mei, lacrimae erant in oculis meis, et sudor in corpore prae timore. At last the appointed day arrived, and Jesus came and took his leave of his Mother, weeping, to go to his death. St. Bonaventure, contemplating what Mary did that night, says to her: Sine somno duxisti, et soporatis ceteris, vigil permansisti. When morning came, the disciples of Jesus Christ came to this afflicted Mother — one bearing one report, another another, but all of sorrow — and the words of Jeremiah were fulfilled over her: Plorans ploravit in nocte, et lacrimae eius in maxillis eius: non est qui consoletur eam ex omnibus caris eius (Lam. I, 2). One came to tell her of the maltreatment of her Son in the house of Caiaphas; another of the contempt he received from Herod. Finally — I pass over all the rest to come to our point — St. John came and told Mary that the most unjust Pilate had already condemned him to die on the cross. I say most unjust, for as St. Leo noted, this wicked judge: Iisdem labiis mittit ad mortem, quibus eum pronuntiaverat innocentem. "Ah, sorrowful Mother," John said, "your Son has already been sentenced to death; already he has gone out carrying his own cross to go to Calvary" — as he later recorded in his Gospel: Et baiulans sibi crucem exivit in eum qui dicitur Calvariae locum (Jn. XIX, 17) — "come if you wish to see him and give him your last farewell on some street he must pass through."

Mary sets out with John, and from the blood with which she found the road sprinkled, she perceived that her Son had already passed that way. So she revealed to St. Bridget: Ex vestigiis Filii mei cognoscebam incessum eius: quo enim procedebat, apparebat terra infusa sanguine. St. Bonaventure meditates that the afflicted Mother, cutting through a shorter street, stationed herself at the head of a road where the afflicted Son was to pass. Maestissima Mater maestissimo Filio occurrit, said St. Bernard. Standing there, how many words against her dear Son must Mary have heard from the Jews who already knew her, and perhaps what taunts against herself as well? What a spectacle of sorrow it was for her eyes to see the nails, the hammers, the ropes carried before — the grim instruments of her Son's death! And what a sword to her heart it was to hear the trumpet going about publishing the sentence pronounced upon her Jesus! But behold, after the instruments, the trumpet, and the ministers of justice have passed, she raises her eyes and sees — oh God — a young man all covered with blood and wounds from head to foot, with a mass of thorns upon his head, with two heavy beams upon his shoulders; she gazes at him and can hardly recognize him, saying then with Isaiah: Et vidimus eum, et non erat aspectus (ch. LIII, 2). Yes, for the wounds, the bruises, the blackened blood made him appear as a leper: Putavimus eum quasi leprosum. In such a way that he could no longer be recognized: Et quasi absconditus vultus eius et despectus; unde nec reputavimus eum. But at last love reveals him, and having recognized him — what then, says St. Peter of Alcantara in his Meditations, was the love and the fear of Mary's heart? On the one hand she desired to see him; on the other she shrank from seeing so pitiful a sight. But at last they look at each other; the Son, wiping a clot of blood from his eyes that blocked his sight, as was revealed to St. Bridget, looked at his Mother; the Mother looked at her Son. Ah, looks of sorrow, by which, as by so many arrows, those two beautiful, enamored souls were pierced! Margaret, the daughter of Thomas More, when she met her father on the road as he was being led to death, could say nothing to him but twice: "O father! O father!" — and she fell in a faint at his feet. Mary, at the sight of her Son going to Calvary, did not faint — no, for it was not fitting for this Mother to lose the use of reason, as Father Suarez says; nor did she die, for God reserved her for greater sorrow. But though she did not die, she nevertheless suffered a sorrow sufficient to give her a thousand deaths.

The Mother wished to embrace him, says St. Anselm, but the soldiers roughly pushed her aside and drove the afflicted Lord forward; and Mary followed him. Ah holy Virgin, where are you going? To Calvary? And do you dare to see hanging on a tree the one who is your life? Et erit vita tua quasi pendens ante te (Deut. XXVIII, 66). Ah, my Mother, stop — St. Lawrence Justinian meditates, as if the Son himself had said to her: Where are you drawing near? Where do you wish to come? If you come where I am going, you will be tormented by my execution, and I by yours: Heu quo properas, quo venis, Mater? Cruciatu meo cruciaberis, et ego tuo. But even though seeing her Jesus die is to cost her so bitter a sorrow, the loving Mary will not leave him: the Son goes on ahead, and the Mother follows behind, to be herself crucified with her Son, as William says: Tollebat et Mater crucem suam et sequebatur eum, crucifigenda cum ipso.

St. John Chrysostom wrote: Ferarum etiam miseremur. If we saw a lioness following her young cub being led to slaughter, even a wild beast would move us to compassion. And shall we not be moved to compassion at seeing Mary following her immaculate Lamb as they carry him to death? Let us then have compassion on her and strive to accompany her Son and her as well, patiently bearing the cross the Lord gives us. St. John Chrysostom asks why Jesus Christ, in his other sufferings, wished to be alone, but in carrying the cross wished to be helped by Simon of Cyrene? And he answers: Ut intelligas Christi crucem non sufficere sine tua. The cross of Jesus alone does not suffice to save us if we do not carry with resignation unto death our own cross as well.

Example

One day the Savior appeared to Sister Diomira, a nun in Florence, and said to her: "Think of me and love me, and I will think of you and love you." And at the same time he presented her with a bouquet of flowers together with a cross, signifying that the consolations of the saints in this world must always be accompanied by the cross. The cross unites souls to God.

Blessed Jerome Emiliani, when he was a soldier and full of vices, was shut up by his enemies in a tower. There, moved by this tribulation and enlightened by God to change his life, he had recourse to the Most Holy Mary, and then, with the help of this divine Mother, he began to lead a saintly life. He merited to see in heaven the great place God had prepared for him. He became the founder of the Somaschi Fathers, died as a saint, and has been declared blessed and a saint by Holy Church.

Prayer

My sorrowful Mother, by the merit of the sorrow you felt in seeing your beloved Jesus led to death, obtain for me the grace to bear with patience the crosses God sends me too. Happy am I if I too can accompany you with my cross until death! You and Jesus, both innocent, carried a very heavy cross; and shall I, a sinner who have deserved hell, refuse mine? Ah, Immaculate Virgin, from you I hope for help to bear my crosses with patience. Amen.

On the Fifth Sorrow — The Death of Jesus

Here we are to admire a new kind of martyrdom: a mother condemned to see before her eyes, executed with barbarous torments, an innocent son whom she loved with all her affection. Stabat autem iuxta crucem Mater eius. Nothing more need be said of the martyrdom of Mary, says St. John: look at her beside the cross in sight of her dying Son, and then see whether there is any sorrow like her sorrow. Let us, then, pause again today on Calvary to consider this fifth sword that pierced the heart of Mary — the death of Jesus.

When our distressed Redeemer arrived on the mount, the executioners stripped him of his garments, and nailing his sacred hands and feet with nails — not sharp but blunt, says St. Bernard, to torment him more — they fixed him to the cross. When they had crucified him, they raised the cross and left him to die. The executioners abandoned him, but Mary did not abandon him. Then she drew nearer to the cross, to assist at his death. Ego non separabar ab eo, the Blessed Virgin revealed to St. Bridget, et stabam vicinior cruci eius. But what use was it, my Lady, says St. Bonaventure, to go to Calvary to see this Son die before you? Cur ivisti, o Domina, ad Calvariae locum? cur te non retinuit pudor, horror facinoris? Modesty should have held you back, since his disgrace was also yours, for you were his Mother. At least the horror of such a crime should have held you back — to see a God crucified by his own creatures. But the same saint answers: Non considerabat cor tuum horrorem, sed dolorem: Ah, your heart was not thinking of its own suffering, but of the sorrow and the death of your dear Son; and therefore you wished to be present yourself, at least to compassionate him. Ah, true Mother, says Abbot William, loving Mother, whom not even the terror of death could separate from her beloved Son: Plane mater, quae nec in terrore mortis Filium deserebat. But, O God, what a spectacle of sorrow it was then: to see this Son in agony on the cross, and beneath the cross to see this Mother in agony, suffering all the pains that her Son endured! Behold what Mary revealed to St. Bridget of the pitiable state of her dying Son as she saw him on the cross: My dear Jesus hung on the cross all distressed and in agony; his eyes were sunk deep, half closed, and lifeless; his lips hanging and his mouth open; his cheeks hollow and pressed against his teeth; his jaws stretched, his nose pointed, his face haggard; his head was seen fallen upon his breast, his hair black with blood, his stomach drawn against his backbone, his arms and legs stiff, and all the rest of his body covered with wounds and blood.

All these sufferings of Jesus were also Mary's, says St. Jerome: Quot laesiones in corpore Christi, tot vulnera in corde Matris. Whoever had then been on Calvary would have seen, says St. John Chrysostom, two altars where two great sacrifices were being consummated: one in the body of Jesus, the other in the heart of Mary. But I think St. Bonaventure sees it better as a single altar — namely, the cross of the Son alone — on which, together with the victim of this divine Lamb, the Mother too was sacrificed. Hence the saint addresses her: O Domina, ubi stas? Numquid iuxta crucem? Imo in cruce cum Filio cruciaris: O Mary, where do you stand? By the cross? Ah, more rightly shall I say that you stand on the very cross, sacrificed and crucified together with your Son. So St. Augustine assures us: Cruci et clavi Filii fuerunt et Matris; Christo crucifixo crucifigebatur et Mater. Yes, because as St. Bernard says, what the nails did in the body of Jesus, love did in the heart of Mary: Quod in carne Christi agebant clavi, in Virginis mente affectus erga Filium. So that at the same time the Son sacrificed his body, the Mother sacrificed her soul, as St. Bernardine wrote: Dum ille corpus, ista spiritum immolabat.

Mothers flee from the presence of their dying children; but if ever a mother is forced to attend the death of a son, she goes about procuring for him all the relief she can; she adjusts his bed so that he may lie more comfortably; she gives him refreshments; and so the poor mother consoles her sorrow. Ah, most afflicted of all mothers! O Mary, you are required to assist your dying Jesus, but it is not given to you to offer him any relief. Mary heard the Son say: Sitio, but she was not permitted to give him a drop of water to cool his great thirst. Nothing else could she say to him, as St. Vincent Ferrer contemplates: Fili, non habeo nisi aquam lacrimarum. She saw that on that bed of pain the Son, hanging by those three iron hooks, found no rest; she wished to embrace him to give him relief, at least to let him breathe his last in her arms, but she could not: Volebat eum amplecti, says St. Bernard, sed manus frustra protensae in se complexae redibant. She saw her poor Son, who in that sea of anguish went seeking someone to console him — as he had foretold through the prophet: Torcular calcavi solus... Circumspexi et non est auxiliator: quaesivi et non fuit qui adiuvaret (Is. LXIII, 3, 5) — but who would console him among men, when all were his enemies? Even on the cross, some blasphemed and mocked him from one side and some from another: Praetereuntes autem blasphemabant eum moventes capita sua (Mt. XXVII, 39). Others said to his face: Si filius Dei es, descende de cruce. Others: Alios salvos fecit, seipsum non potest salvum facere. Others: Si rex Israel est, descendat nunc de cruce (Mt. XXVII, 42). The Blessed Virgin herself said to St. Bridget: I heard some say that my Son was a thief; others that he was an impostor; others that no one deserved death more than he; and each of these was a new sword of sorrow to me.

What then most increased Mary's sorrow and compassion for her Son was hearing him on the cross complain that even the Eternal Father had abandoned him: Deus meus, Deus meus, ut quid dereliquisti me? (Mt. XXVII, 46). Words which, as the divine Mother told St. Bridget, she could never for the rest of her life banish from her mind. So the afflicted Mother saw her Jesus tormented on every side; she wished to relieve him, but could not. And what pained her most was to know that she herself, by her presence and her sorrow, was adding to the sufferings of her Son. The same pain that filled the heart of Mary, says St. Bernard, overflowed to embitter the Heart of Jesus: Repleta Matre, ad Filium redundaret inundatio amaritudinis. Indeed, St. Bernard says, Jesus on the cross suffered more from compassion for his Mother than from his own sufferings; so he makes the Virgin say: Stabam ego videns eum, ipse videns me, et plus dolebat de me quam de se. Thus the same saint, speaking of Mary beside her dying Son, says that she lived dying, unable to die: Iuxta crucem stabat Mater, vox illi non erat, moriebatur vivens, vivebat moriens; nec mori poterat, quia vivens mortua erat. Passino writes that Jesus Christ himself, speaking one day to Blessed Baptista Varani of Camerino, told her that while he was on the cross, it so afflicted him to see at his feet his Mother so stricken that compassion for his Mother made him die without consolation. So that the said blessed one, having been enlightened to know this sorrow of Jesus, exclaimed: "Lord, do not tell me any more of this suffering of yours; I can bear no more."

The men who stood watching were amazed, says Simon of Cassia, that this Mother kept silence without lamenting amid so great a sorrow: Stupebant omnes qui noverant huius hominis matrem, quod etiam in tantae angustiae pressura silentium servabat. But if Mary was silent with her lips, she was not silent in her heart; for she did nothing else but offer to divine justice the life of her Son for our salvation. Hence we know that through the merit of her sorrows she cooperated in bringing us to birth in the life of grace, so that we are the children of her sorrows. Voluit eam Christus, says Lanspergius, cooperatricem nostrae Redemptionis adstare, quam nobis constituerat dare matrem: debebat enim ipsa sub cruce nos parere filios. And if ever in that sea of bitterness — I mean the heart of Mary — any relief entered, the only consolation was this: to know that through her sorrows she was giving birth to us for eternal salvation, as Jesus himself revealed to St. Bridget: Maria Mater mea propter compassionem et caritatem, facta est mater omnium in caelis et in terra. And indeed these were the last words by which Jesus took leave of her before dying; this was the last remembrance — leaving us to her as her children in the person of John, when he said to her: Mulier, ecce filius tuus (Jn. XIX, 26). And from that time Mary began to exercise for us the office of a good mother; for as St. Peter Damian attests, the good thief was converted and saved through the prayers of Mary: Idcirco resipuit bonus latro quia B. Virgo inter cruces Filii et latronis posita, Filium pro latrone deprecabatur. And this blessed Virgin has continued and continues to exercise that office always.

Example

A certain young man in Perugia promised the devil that if he obtained for him the commission of a certain sin he desired to commit, he would give him his soul — and he drew up the agreement in writing signed with his own blood. Having committed the sin, the devil, wishing the promise fulfilled, carried him near a well, threatening that if he did not throw himself in, the devil would drag him body and soul to hell. The wretched young man, believing he could no longer escape from his hands, climbed to the rim of the well to throw himself in; but, terrified of death, he told the enemy that he did not have the courage to jump, and if the devil wanted him dead, he should push him. The young man wore around his neck the scapular of Our Lady of Sorrows; so the devil said: "Take off that scapular, and I will push you." But he, recognizing in that scapular the protection that the divine Mother still preserved for him, refused to remove it. After many struggles, the devil departed in confusion, and the sinner, grateful to his sorrowful Mother, went to thank her, and, repentant of his sins, wished also to hang a votive offering, depicted in a painting, at her altar in the church of Santa Maria la Nuova in Perugia.

Prayer

Ah, most sorrowful of all mothers, your Son has died, then — a Son so lovable and who loved you so much? Weep, for you have reason to weep. Who can ever console you? Only this thought can console you: that Jesus by his death has conquered hell, has opened paradise — previously closed — to men, and has won so many souls. From that throne of the cross he shall reign over so many hearts that, conquered by his love, shall serve him with love.

Do not disdain meanwhile, O my Mother, to keep me near to weep with you, since I have more reason than you to weep for the offenses I have committed against him. Ah Mother of Mercy, I first by the death of my Redeemer and then by the merits of your sorrows hope for pardon and for my eternal salvation. Amen.

On the Sixth Sorrow — The Piercing of the Side and the Descent of Jesus from the Cross

O vos omnes, qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte, si est dolor sicut dolor meus (Lam. I, 12). Devout souls, hear what the sorrowful Mary says today: My beloved daughters, I do not want you to console me; no, for my heart is no longer capable of consolation on this earth, after the death of my dear Jesus. If you wish to please me, this is what I ask of you: turn to me and see whether in the world there has ever been a sorrow like mine, in having seen taken from me with such cruelty the one who was my entire love. But, my Lady, since you do not wish to be consoled, and have so great a thirst for suffering — I have only to tell you that with the death of your Son, not even your sorrows are ended. Today you will be wounded by another sword of sorrow: you will see a cruel lance pierce the side of your very Son, already dead; and afterward you will have to receive him in your arms, taken down from the cross. And here we are to consider today the sixth sorrow that afflicted this poor Mother. Pay attention, and shed tears. Until now, the sorrows have come to torture Mary one by one; but today they seem to come all together to assail her.

It is enough to tell a mother that her son is dead to set her all ablaze with love for the lost child. Some people, with mothers whose sons have died, try to alleviate their sorrow by recalling the vexations those sons once caused them. But if I, my Queen, wished in such a way to lighten your sorrow at the death of Jesus, what vexation could I ever recall that you received from him? Ah no — he always loved you, always obeyed you, always respected you. Now you have lost him: who can ever express your grief? Express it yourself, you who experienced it.

When our Redeemer had died, a devout author says, the first sentiments of the great Mother were to accompany the most holy soul of her Son and present it to the Eternal Father. "I present to you, O my God," Mary must then have said, "the immaculate soul of your Son and mine, who has obeyed you even unto death; receive him in your arms. Behold, your justice is satisfied, your will fulfilled; the great sacrifice is consummated for your eternal glory." And then, turning to the dead limbs of her Jesus: "O wounds," she said, "loving wounds, I adore you and rejoice with you, since through you salvation has been given to the world. You will remain open in the body of my Son, to be the refuge of all who have recourse to you. Oh, how many through you will receive the pardon of their sins, and through you will be set aflame with love for the Supreme Good!"

Lest the joy of the following Paschal Sabbath be disturbed, the Jews wished the body of Jesus to be removed from the cross; but since the condemned could not be taken down unless they were dead, some came with iron clubs to break his legs, as they had already done to the other two thieves crucified with him. Behold, then, Mary — while she is weeping over the death of her Son — sees those armed men coming against her Jesus. At this sight she first trembled with fright, and then said: "Ah, my Son is already dead! Cease to insult him further, and cease to torment his poor mother further." Oravit eos, ne frangerent crura, wrote St. Bonaventure. But while she is speaking, she sees — oh God — a soldier thrust out his lance with force and with it open the side of Jesus: Unus militum lancea latus eius aperuit et continuo exivit sanguis et aqua (Jn. XIX, 34). At the blow of the lance the cross trembled, and the Heart of Jesus was split in two, as was revealed to St. Bridget: Ita ut ambae partes essent divisae. Blood and water came forth, for there was no more blood left but those last drops, and even these the Savior wished to shed, to make us understand that he had no more blood to give us. The insult of this lance thrust was upon Jesus, but the pain was Mary's: Divisit Christus, says the devout Lanspergius, cum Matre sua huius vulneris poenam, ut ipse iniuriam acciperet, Mater dolorem. The holy Fathers hold that this was precisely the sword foretold to the Virgin by St. Simeon: a sword not of iron but of sorrow, which pierced her blessed soul in the Heart of Jesus, where she always dwelt. So says, among others, St. Bernard: Lancea quae ipsius latus aperuit, animam Virginis pertransivit, quae inde nequibat avelli. And to St. Bridget the divine Mother herself revealed: Cum retraheretur hasta, apparuit cuspis rubea sanguine. Tunc mihi videbatur quod quasi cor meum perforaretur, cum vidissem cor Filii mei carissimi perforatum. The angel told St. Bridget that such were the sorrows of Mary that by divine miracle she did not then die: Non parvum miraculum a Deo factum est, quod B. Virgo tot doloribus sauciata spiritum non exhalarit. But in her other sorrows she at least had her Son to compassionate her; here she does not even have the Son to share her grief.

Fearing, therefore, still further insults to her beloved Son, the sorrowful Mother asked Joseph of Arimathea to obtain from Pilate the body of her Jesus, so that at least she could guard him dead and free him from outrages. Joseph went to Pilate and set before him the sorrow and the desire of this afflicted mother; and St. Anselm holds that the compassion for the Mother moved Pilate and persuaded him to grant her the body of the Savior.

Behold, then, they take Jesus down from the cross. O most holy Virgin, after having with so much love given your Son to the world for our salvation, the world now gives him back to you. But, O God, in what condition do you give him back to me? the Mother said to the world: Dilectus meus candidus et rubicundus: my Son was fair and ruddy; but you give him back to me blackened with bruises and red — not with natural color, but with the wounds you have inflicted on him. He was beautiful; now he is beautiful no longer; he is all disfigured. He once enamored others with his appearance; now he inspires horror in whoever looks at him. Oh, how many swords, says St. Bonaventure, pierced the soul of this Mother when the Son was presented to her, taken down from the cross: Oh quot gladii animam Matris pertransierunt! Consider what sorrow any mother would feel at being presented with a dead son! It was revealed to St. Bridget that for the aforementioned descent, they placed three ladders against the cross. First those holy disciples unnailed the hands, and then the feet — and the nails were given to Mary, as Metaphrastes relates. Then one holding the body of Jesus from above, and the other from below, they lowered him from the cross. Bernardine de Bustis meditates how the afflicted Mother rose on tiptoe and, stretching out her arms, went to meet her dear Son; she embraced him and then sat down at the foot of the cross. She sees his mouth open, his eyes darkened; she goes examining that lacerated flesh, those exposed bones; she removes the crown and sees the damage wrought by the thorns on that sacred head; she looks at those hands and those pierced feet, and says: "Ah, my Son, to what has the love you bore for men reduced you? But what evil did you do them, that they treated you thus?" Tu mihi pater eras, Bernardine de Bustis continues to have her say, tu frater, sponsus, meae deliciae, mea gloria, tu mihi omnia eras. "My Son, see how sorrowful I am; look at me and console me. But you no longer look at me. Speak, say one word to me and console me; but you no longer speak, for you are dead. O cruel thorns" — then, turning to those barbarous instruments — "nails, pitiless lance, how could you so torment your Creator? But what thorns? What nails? Ah, sinners," she exclaimed, "you are the ones who so mistreated my Son!"

So Mary then spoke, and complained of us. But if she were now capable of sorrow, what would she say? And what pain would she feel on seeing that men, after the death of her Son, continue to wound him and crucify him with their sins? Let us, then, torment this sorrowful Mother no more; and if in the past we too have afflicted her with our sins, let us do what she now says to us. Here is what she tells us: Redite, praevaricatores, ad cor (Is. XLVI, 8): Sinners, return to the wounded Heart of my Jesus; return repentant, and he will welcome you. Ab ipso fuge ad ipsum, she continues to speak to us with Abbot Guerric, a iudice ad Redemptorem, a tribunali ad crucem. The same Virgin revealed to St. Bridget that when she received her Son taken down from the cross, she closed his eyes, but could not close his arms: Eius brachia flectere non potuit; thereby Jesus Christ gave us to understand that he wished to remain with his arms open, to welcome all repentant sinners who return to him. "O world," Mary thus continues, "behold, ecce tempus tuum, tempus amantium (Ez. XVI, 8). Now that my Son, O world, has died to save you, it is no longer a time for you of fear, but of love; a time to love the one who, to show you the love he bears you, has wished to suffer so much." Propterea, says St. Bernard, vulneratum est Cor Christi, ut per vulnus visibile vulnus amoris invisibilis videatur. If, then — Mary concludes with the Idiota — my Son wished his side to be opened to give you his Heart: Prae nimio amore aperuit sibi latus, ut praeberet Cor suum — it is right, O man, that you give him your heart. And if you wish, O children of Mary, to find without refusal a place in the Heart of Jesus, go, says Ubertino of Casale, go together with Mary, and she will obtain the grace for you: Filii huius Matris, ingredimini cum ipsa intra penetralia Cordis Iesu. Here follows a beautiful example as confirmation.

Example

The Disciple relates that there was a poor sinner who, among his other crimes, had killed his own father and a brother, and was therefore living as a fugitive. One Lenten day, hearing a preacher speak of divine mercy, he went to him of his own accord to confess. The confessor, hearing those excesses, sent him to an altar of Our Lady of Sorrows, that she might obtain for him sorrow and pardon for his sins. The sinner went and began to pray — and behold, he was found there dead, having suddenly expired. The next day, when the priest recommended the deceased to the prayers of the people, a white dove appeared in the church, from which a note was seen to fall at the feet of the priest. He picked up the note and found these words written on it: "The soul of the dead man, as soon as it left the body, went to paradise. And do you continue to preach the infinite mercy of God."

Prayer

O sorrowful Virgin, O soul great in virtue and great also in suffering — since both your virtues and your sorrows spring from that great fire of love you bear for God, while your heart knows how to love nothing but God — ah, Mother, have pity on me, who have not loved God and have so greatly offended him. Your sorrows give me great confidence to hope for pardon. But this is not enough for me; I wish to love my Lord; and who could better obtain this for me than you, who are the Mother of Fair Love? Ah Mary, you console all; console me too. Amen.

On the Seventh Sorrow — The Burial of the Body of Jesus

When a mother is present at the suffering of her son, there is no doubt that she feels and endures all his sufferings; but when the tormented son is dead and is to be buried, and the afflicted mother is about to take her leave of him — O God, the thought of seeing him no more is a sorrow that surpasses all other sorrows. Here is the last sword of sorrow we are to consider today: when Mary, after having assisted her Son on the cross, after having embraced him dead, had finally to leave him in the sepulcher, never to enjoy his beloved presence again.

But to better consider this last sorrow, let us return to Calvary to contemplate the afflicted Mother, who still holds her dead Son in her arms. My Son — she seems then to say to him with Job (ch. XXX, v. 21) — Fili mi, mutatus es mihi in crudelem. Yes, because all your beautiful qualities — your beauty, your grace, your virtues, your lovable ways, all the marks of special love you showed me, the singular favors you bestowed on me — all have been changed into so many arrows of sorrow; for the more they have kindled my love for you, the more cruelly they now make me feel the pain of having lost you. Ah, my beloved Son, in losing you I have lost everything. So St. Bernard has her speak: O vere Dei nate, tu mihi pater, tu mihi filius, tu mihi sponsus, tu mihi anima eras! Nunc orbor patre, viduor sponso, desolor filio — uno perdito filio omnia perdo.

Thus Mary was consumed with sorrow, embracing her Son; but those holy disciples, fearing that this poor Mother would breathe her last from the pain, moved to take the dead Son quickly from her bosom to carry him to burial. Hence with reverent force they took him from her arms, and embalming him with spices they wrapped him in the shroud prepared, on which the Lord wished to leave his image imprinted for the world, as is seen today in Turin. Behold, they carry him to burial; the sorrowful procession sets out. The disciples place him on their shoulders; hosts of angels from heaven accompany him; the holy women follow; and with them the sorrowful Mother goes, following her Son to the tomb. Arriving at the appointed place — oh, how willingly Mary would have been buried alive with her Son! O quam libenter, she said to St. Bridget, tunc posita fuissem viva cum Filio meo, si fuisset voluntas eius! But since this was not the divine will, they tell us she herself accompanied the sacred body of Jesus to the sepulcher, where, Baronius reports, they placed the nails and the crown of thorns. Then, as they raised the stone to close the sepulcher, those disciples of the Savior had to turn to the Virgin and say: "Come now, my Lady, the sepulcher must be closed. Have patience; look at him one last time and take your leave of your Son." "Then, my beloved Son" — so the sorrowful Mother must have said — "I shall see you no more? Receive then, on this last time I behold you, the last farewell from me, your dear Mother, and receive my heart, which I leave buried with you." Animam, wrote St. Fulgentius, cum corpore Christi contumulari Virgo vehementer exoptavit. And Mary herself revealed to St. Bridget: Vere dicere possum quod sepulto Filio meo quasi duo corda in uno sepulcro fuerunt.

At last they take the stone and close the body of Jesus in the holy sepulcher — that great treasure, the greatest that neither earth nor heaven possesses. Let us here make a digression: Mary leaves her heart buried with Jesus, because Jesus is her entire treasure: Ubi thesaurus vester est, ibi et cor vestrum erit (Lk. XII, 34). And where shall we keep our hearts buried? In creatures? In the mud? And why not in Jesus, who, although he has ascended to heaven, has wished to remain — not dead, but alive — in the Most Blessed Sacrament of the Altar, precisely to have with him and possess our hearts?

But let us return to Mary. Before departing from the sepulcher, St. Bonaventure tells us that she blessed that sacred stone: "O happy stone," she said, "you now enclose within you the one who was nine months in my womb. I bless you and envy you; I leave you to guard for me this Son of mine, who is my entire good, my entire love." And then, turning to the Eternal Father, she said: "O Father, to you I commend him who is your Son and my Son." And with this, giving a last farewell to her Son and to the sepulcher, she departed and returned to her house. So afflicted and mournful went this poor Mother that, says St. Bernard, she drew tears even from those who did not wish to weep: multos etiam invitos ad lacrimas provocabat. So that wherever she passed: omnes plorabant qui obviabant ei — all who met her could not keep from weeping. And he adds that those holy disciples and the women who accompanied her wept more for her than for the Lord: super ipsam potius quam super Dominum plangebant.

St. Bonaventure says that her companions veiled her with a mourning mantle: Sorores Dominae velaverunt eam tamquam viduam, cooperientes quasi totum vultum. And he says that passing on her return before the cross, still stained with the blood of her Jesus, she was the first to adore it. "O holy cross," she then said, "I kiss you and adore you, for now you are no longer an infamous gibbet but a throne of love and an altar of mercy, consecrated with the blood of the divine Lamb, who upon you has already been sacrificed for the salvation of the world." She then leaves the cross and returns home, where the afflicted Mother looks around and no longer sees her Jesus; but instead of the presence of her dear Son, there appear before her eyes all the memories of his beautiful life and of his cruel death. Here she recalls the embraces given to her Son in the stable of Bethlehem, the conversation held with him during all those years in the workshop of Nazareth; she remembers the mutual affections, the loving glances, the words of eternal life that came from that divine mouth. And then there rises before her the sorrowful scene witnessed that very day; there appear those nails, those thorns, that lacerated flesh of her Son, those deep wounds, those stripped bones, that open mouth, those darkened eyes. Ah, what a night of sorrow that night was for Mary! The sorrowful Mother, turning to St. John, grievingly asked him: "Ah, John, where is your Master?" Then she asked the Magdalene: "Daughter, tell me, where is your Beloved? O God, who has taken him from us?" Mary weeps, and all who are with her weep. And you, my soul, do you not weep? Turn to Mary and say to her with St. Bonaventure: Sine, Domina mea, sine me flere; tu innocens es, ego sum reus. At least pray her to admit you to weep with her: Fac ut tecum lugeam. She weeps for love, and you weep for sorrow over your sins. And thus you, weeping, may gain the fortune of him we read about in the following example.

Example

Father Engelgrave relates that there was a certain religious so tormented by scruples that at times he was almost on the point of despair; but because he was most devoted to Our Lady of Sorrows, he always had recourse to her in his agonies of spirit, and contemplating her sorrows, he felt himself comforted. He came to death, and the devil then assailed him more fiercely than ever with his scruples and tempted him to despair. But behold, the compassionate Mother, seeing her poor son in such distress, appeared to him and said: Et tu, fili mi, cur maerore conficeris, qui in maerore meo toties me consolatus es? "My son, why do you fear and grieve so? You who so many times consoled me by compassionating my sorrows? Come now," she said, "Jesus sends me to you to console you. Take heart, be glad, come with me to paradise." And at these words the devout religious, all filled with consolation and confidence, peacefully breathed his last.

Prayer

My sorrowful Mother, I do not wish to leave you alone to weep; no, I wish to accompany you with my tears as well. This is the grace I ask of you today: obtain for me a continual memory and tender devotion toward the Passion of Jesus and yours, so that all the days remaining to me of life may serve for nothing else than to weep over the sorrows of you, my Mother, and of my Redeemer. These sorrows I hope will, at the moment of death, give me confidence and strength not to despair at the sight of the offenses I have committed against my Lord. These shall obtain for me pardon, perseverance, and paradise, where I hope then to rejoice with you and sing the infinite mercies of my God for all eternity. So I hope, so may it be. Amen, amen.