Amid the rabble mob that hounded the Redeemer to his doom, there were some gracious souls whose bitter anguish poured out in wailing and lamentations—fit music to accompany that march of woe. When my soul can, in imagination, see the Savior bearing his cross to Calvary, she joins the godly women and weeps with them. For indeed, there is true cause for grief—cause lying deeper than those mourning women thought.

They bewailed innocence maltreated, goodness persecuted, love bleeding, meekness about to die. But my heart has a deeper and more bitter cause to mourn. My sins were the scourges that lacerated those blessed shoulders and crowned with thorns that bleeding brow. My sins cried, "Crucify him! Crucify him!" and laid the cross upon his gracious shoulders.

His being led forth to die is sorrow enough for one eternity. But my having been his murderer? That is more, infinitely more grief than one poor fountain of tears can express.

Why those women loved and wept, it's not hard to guess. But they could not have had greater reasons for love and grief than my heart has. The widow of Nain saw her son restored—but I myself have been raised to newness of life. Peter's mother-in-law was cured of fever—but I of the greater plague of sin. Out of Mary Magdalene seven devils were cast—but a whole legion out of me. Mary and Martha were favored with visits—but he dwells with me. His mother bore his body—but he is formed in me, the hope of glory.

In nothing behind the holy women in debt, let me not be behind them in gratitude or sorrow. Love and grief my heart dividing, with my tears his feet I'll bathe—constant still in heart abiding, weep for him who died to save.