Jews were wrought to cruel madness,
Christians fled in fear and sadness,
Mary stood the cross beside.
At its foot her foot she planted,
By the dreadful scene undaunted,
Till the gentle sufferer died.
Poets oft have sung her story;
Painters decked her brow with glory;
Priests her name have deified;
But no worship, song, or glory,
Touches like that simple story,—
“Mary stood the cross beside.”
And when under fierce oppression
Goodness suffers like transgression,
Christ again is crucified.
But if love be there, true-hearted,
By no grief or terror parted,
Mary stands the cross beside.