Mary from Thy sacred image, With those eyes so sadly sweet,
Mother of Perpetual Succour See us kneeling at Thy feet.
In Thine arms Thy Child Thou bearest, Source of all Thy joy and woe;
What Thy bliss, how deep Thy sorrows, Mother, Thou Alone canst know.
On Thy face He is not gazing, Nor on us is turned His glance,
For His anxious look He fixes On the Cross, and reed and lance.
To Thy hand His hands are clinging, As a child would cling in fear;
Of that vision of the torment, Of His passion drawing near.
And for Him Thine eyes are pleading, While to us they look and cry,
"Sinners, see My Child, your Saviour, Who for love of you will die!"
Yes, we hear Thy words, sweet Mother But poor sinners we are weak;
At Thy feet Thy helpless children, Thy perpetual succour seek.
Succour us when stormy passions Sudden rise within the heart;
Quell the tempest, calm the billows, Peace secure to us impart.
Through this life of weary exile, Succour us in every need;
And when death shall come to free us, Succour us, ah, then indeed!