DOnna del paradiso, lo tuo figliolo è preso
The Arrest and Trial
Mary witnesses the betrayal and arrest of her Son, following Him to the judgment of Pilate.
Lady of paradise, your son is taken, blessed Jesus Christ. Hurry, lady, and see how the people are mocking him! I believe he's being killed; so much for the one who is being scourged! How could my hope in Christ ever be foolishness, if a man has been taken away? My Lady, he has been betrayed; Judas sold him for thirty pieces of silver, and now there is a great market for it. Help me, Magdalena, I’m overwhelmed! They’re leading your Son, Christ, just as I was told. Help me, Madonna, please. If your son is spat upon and the people turn against him, they have handed him over to Pilate. O Pilate, don’t torment my son, for I can show you how he is wrongfully accused. Crucify him! Crucify him! A man who makes himself king, according to our law, contradicts the Senate. I pray that you understand me in my pain! For now, you've changed from what you once thought. The thief outside is one of his companions: crowned with thorns! For he is called King.
The Ascent to the Cross
Mary laments as her Son is nailed to the cross, expressing her profound maternal anguish.
O son, son, son! Son, beloved lily! Son, who gives counsel to my troubled heart? Son, joyful eyes, son, why don’t you answer? My son, why are you hiding from the breast where you were nourished? Madonna, here is the cross the people are leading you to, where the true light must be lifted up. O cross, what will you do? Will you take my son? And what will you bear, since he has no sin in himself? Help me, full of sorrow, for your Son is stripped! And the people seem to want him crucified. If you take away his clothing, let me see how cruelly he is wounded all over with blood. Lady, one of His hands is taken, and on the cross it is stretched out and pierced with a nail—it has been driven in so deeply! The other hand is taken, it is stretched on the cross, and the pain ignites, which is multiplied even more. Lady, your feet are taken and they rest on the wood, every wound is opened, all your soul is laid bare. And I began the corruption: my son, whom I have lost, my son, who has killed me, my delicate son? It is better to suffer in my heart than to be drawn to the cross, where I feel so abandoned.
The Final Exchange
Jesus speaks to His mother from the cross, entrusting her to the care of John.
Mother, oh, have you come? A mortal wound has been dealt to me; your weeping stuns me, for I am so deeply grasped. Son, why have you made me suffer? Son, father and husband, son, who has hurt you? Son, who has stripped you? Mom, why are you complaining? I want you to be happy and to serve my companions who have found comfort in this world. Son, don't say that. I want to die with you; I don’t want to leave until my breath is gone. Let's have a burial, son of a dark mother! To be found in the embrace of mother and drowned son. Mother, with a troubled heart, I place in your hands John, my chosen one; may your son be called. John, be my mate, hold me in love, add compassion, for my heart is pierced.
The Lament of the Bereaved Mother
Mary mourns the death of her Son, reflecting on the fulfillment of the prophecy of her sorrow.
Son, your soul has left you, son of the lost, son of the vanished, son who is poisoned! White and red son, son without equal, son, to whom do I cling? Son, you have truly abandoned me! White and blonde son, joyful face, son, why has the world treated you so scornfully? Sweet and pleasing child, child of the sorrowful one, child, how badly the people have treated you! O John, beloved son, your brother is dead; I have felt the knife that was foretold. Your son is dead, and you are gripped by a harsh death; you find yourself embraced by death and your son embraced.
Read the original Latin
DOnna del paradiso, lo tuo figliolo è preso, Iesù Christo beato.
Accurre, donna, & uide che la gente l’allide! credo che llo s’occide, tanto l’on flagellato!
Como esser porrìa, che non fece mai follìa, Christo, la spene mia, homo l’auesse pigliato?
Madonna, egli è traduto, Iuda sì l’à uenduto, trenta denari n’à ’uuto, facto n’à gran mercato.
Succuri, Magdalena, gionta m’è adosso piena! Christo figlio se mena, como m’è annuntiato.
Succurri, Madonna, aiuta! ch’al tuo figlio se sputa, et la gente lo muta, hanlo dato a Pilato.
O Pilato, non fare lo figlio mio tormentare, ch’io te posso mostrare como a torto è accusato.
Crucifige, crucifige! homo che se fa rege, secondo nostra lege, contradice al senato.
Priego che m’entendati, nel mio dolor pensati! forsa mo ue mutati de quel ch’auete pensato.
Tragon fuor li ladroni che sian suoi compagnoni: de spine se coroni! ché rege s’è chiamato.
O figlio, figlio, figlio! figlio, amoroso giglio! figlio, chi dà consiglio al cor mio angustiato?
Figlio, occhi giocondi, figlio, co non respondi? figlio, perché t’ascondi dal pecto oue sè lactato?
Madonna, ecco la cruce, che la gente l’aduce, oue la uera luce déi essere leuato.
O croce, que farai? el figlio mio torrai? et que ci aponerai, ché non ha en sé peccato?
Succurri, piena de doglia, ché l tuo figluol se spoglia! & la gente par che uoglia che sia en croce chiauato.
Se glie tollete l uestire, lassatemel uedire come l crudel ferire tutto l’à nsanguinato.
Donna, la man gli è presa et nella croce gli è stesa, con un bollon gli è fesa, tanto ci l’on ficcato!
L’altra mano se prende, nella croce se stende, & lo dolor s’accende, che più è multiplicato.
Donna, li piè se prenno et chiauellanse al lenno, omne iontura aprenno, tutto l’àn desnodato.
Et io comencio el corrotto: figliolo, mio deporto, figlio, chi me t’à morto, figlio mio delicato?
Meglio hauerìen facto che l cor m’auesser tracto, che, nella croce tracto, starce desciliato.
Mamma, ó sei uenuta? mortal me dài feruta; che l tuo pianger me stuta, ché l ueggio sì afferrato.
Figlio, che m’agio anuito, figlio, patre & marito, figlio, chi t’à ferito? figlio, chi t’à spogliato?
Mamma, perché te lagni? uoglio che tu remagni, che serue i miei compagni ch’al mondo agio acquistato.
Figlio, questo non dire! uoglio teco morire, non me uoglio partire, fin che mo m’esce l fiato.
Ch’una agiam sepultura, figlio de mamma scura! trouarse en affrantura matre & figlio affogato.
Mamma, col core afflecto entro a le man te metto de Ioanne, mio electo; sia el tuo figlio appellato.
Ioanne, esto mia mate tollela en caritate, aggine pietate, cha lo core ha forato.
Figlio, l’alma t’è uscita, figlio de la smarrita, figlio de la sparita, figlio attossicato!
Figlio bianco & uermiglio, figlio senza simiglio, figlio, a chi m’apiglio? figlio, pur m’ài lassato!
Figlio bianco & biondo, figlio, uolto iocondo, figlio, perché t’à el mondo, figlio, cusì sprezato?
Figlio dolce & piacente, figlio de la dolente, figlio, hatte la gente malamente tractato!
O Ioanne, figlio nouello, morto è lo tuo fratello, sentito aggio l coltello che fo prophetizato.
Che morto ha figlio & mate, de dura morte afferrate, trouarse abracciate mate & figlio abracciato.
Lauds companion
A prayer for every moment, already on your phone
Chosen Portion puts a curated historic prayer in front of you each day — so the words are there before the moment arrives.
Chosen Portion is the digital descendant of the carried prayer book: the short daily prayers this collection preserves, delivered one a day to your pocket.
- One short, memorable prayer delivered daily — build your repertoire a card at a time
- Prayers matched to real situations: fear, gratitude, decisions, grief, sleep
- Save favourites into your personal pocket collection you can open anywhere