When war was raging, and the town Was red with blood of brother bands, Our Virgin-Mother bowed her down With bounteous hands. Seven faithful sons she bid to share Her Dolours, all the shame and loss Which Jesus suffered, and she bare Beneath His Cross. So when their Lady called, as naught They deemed their palaces and wealth, The mountain's desert places sought Far off by stealth. For others' sins the scourge they plied, As they the way of penance trod; By prayers and tears they turned aside The wrath of God. Token of love, the Mother's hand Gave to her sons their garb of woe; Sanctioned the pious work they planned, With wondrous show. The vine, to spread their honors wide, Her sprouts in winter greenly flung, "See, those are Mary's servants," cried The infant tongue. Now to the Father thanks and praise; To Thee, O Son, the same we send; To Thee, great Spirit, through all days World without end.