O mother of all sorrow, ascend
the alter of my verses!
The fury of the sword has spilled
blood from your meagre breasts.

Your wounds, forever fresh
are like eyes, red and open.
O mother of all sorrow, ascend
the altar of my verses!

In your emaciated hands
you hold the body of your son,
to show him to all mankind -
but mankind averts its gaze,
O mother of all sorrow!