History come down, while Greek and Roman conquests create the East–West dichotomy.
She arose, Mary, daughter of David.
In front of the wooden cross, she grieves over her son crucified by soldiers' hands. The sword of sorrow dug into her soul, she faints with pain. Then she recovers, the Mother, to cry: O my son, my love, my love, you, speak to me, you are my son. How do I see you, naked, and I lament, you my son. Yours sufferings have burnt my womb, yours sufferings have pierced my heart. How will she live, your mother, after your death, O my son?
She arose, Mary, daughter of David.
In front of the wooden cross, she grieves over her son crucified by soldiers' hands. The sword of sorrow dug into her soul, she faints with pain. Then she recovers, the Mother, to cry: O my son, my love, my love, you, speak to me, you are my son. How do I see you, naked, and I lament, you my son. Yours sufferings have burnt my womb, yours sufferings have pierced my heart. How will she live, your mother, after your death, O my son?
She arose, Mary, daughter of David.
