Hallowed Mother, do this favour: Those Wounds that gored my Saviour, deeply on my heart engraved. Mine it be, Christ’s throes in sharing. Mine it be, His anguish bearing. These, His wounds, to keep in mind. From the flame of hell unending, be thou, Virgin, me defending, in that dreadful reckoning day! When in death my eyes are closing, open them, Lord, to see reposing, Victory’s crown in Mary’s hand. When my frame by death is broken, and my doom by thee is spoken, be it, Lord, the better land.