It's the 1977 anthology The Best Science-Fiction Stories; 750 pages, black cover, edited by Michael Stapleton. As for the stories you mentioned:
- "Let's Go to Golgotha! by Garry Kilworth:
Simon was frantic. 'Harry, Harry. Look at the crowd! Look around you! There are no Jews here. No natives. The only ones here are us. The holiday-makers. Do you realize the enormity of what we've done? The whole guilt of mankind rests on our shoulders.'
He was sobbing violently now. 'We've crucified the Son of God, and we're going to do it next tour, and the next and the next . . ."
'For ever and ever, time without end, amen,' finished Harry, humbly.
- "The Hibbie" by James Alexander:
To his surprise it was quite easy to obtain Torpex. Supply was controlled, but the stigma attached to its use was so powerful that strong safeguards against misuse did not seem to be necessary. Cass got his from a friend, Bill Sayers, who had served in the space service with him and who, being incapacitated by an injury from further service in space, had elected instead to work for the prison service. One of Bill's job was to administer Torpex every ten weeks to the offenders in his care.
- "We Purchased People" by Frederik Pohl:
'Only we have to wait, Wayne. They want to do it. Not us.'
'What do you mean, wait? Wait for what?' She shrugged under my arm. 'You mean,' I said, 'that we have to be plugged in to them? Like they'll be doing it with our bodies?'
She leaned against me. 'That's what they told me, Wayne. Any minute now, I guess.'
I pushed her away. 'Honey,' I said, half crying, 'all this time I've been wanting to—Jesus, Carolyn! I mean, it isn't just that I wanted to go to bed with you. I mean—'
'I'm sorry,' she cried, big tears on her face.
- This one is vaguer than the others and hard to match. Could you be conflating two different stories? I have three suggestions; none of them fits the description perfectly.
4a. "Survival" by John Wyndham. Not a space station but a rocket ship headed for Mars. There is a mishap and seemingly no hope of rescue (there is a rescue at the end). There is a woman passenger and the baby she gave birth to on the trip, but they are not dead; in the end they are the only survivors:
Her song cut off suddenly at the click of the opening door. For a moment she stared as blankly at the three figures in the opening as they at her. Her face was a mask with harsh lines drawn from the points where the skin was stretched tightly over the bones. Then a trace of expression came over it. Her eyes brightened. Her lips curved in a travesty of a smile.
She loosed her arms from about the baby, and it hung there in midair, chuckling a little to itself. She slid her right hand under the pillow of the bunk, and drew it out again, holding a pistol.
The black shape of the pistol looked enormous in her transparently thin hand as she pointed it at the men who stood transfixed in the doorway.
'Look, baby,' she said. 'Look there! Food! Lovely food. . . .'
4b. "Transit of Earth" by Arthur C. Clarke was the answer to this old question. A solitary astronaut is stranded on Mars. No hope of rescue: check. The sense of being totally alone: check. But no space station, no floating off, no woman or baby.
The therapy has worked. I feel perfectly at ease—even contented, now that I know exactly what I'm going to do. The old nightmares have lost their power.
It is true, we all die alone. It makes no difference at the end, being fifty million miles from home.
4c. "Kaleidoscope" by Ray Bradbury was the answer to this old question; you can listen to the Dimension X radio adaptation at the Internet Archive. Someone floating off into nothingness with no hope of rescue: check. The sense of being totally alone: check. No women or children though:
The first concussion cut the rocket up the side with a giant can-opener. The men were thrown into space like a dozen wriggling silverfish. They were scattered into a dark sea; and the ship, in a million pieces, went on, a meteor swarm seeking a lost sun.
The men are in spacesuits and maintain radio contact for a while, but they are headed in different directions and eventually get out of range:
They were all alone. Their voices had died like echoes of the words of God spoken and vibrating in the starred deep. There went the captain to the Moon; there Stone with the meteor swarm; there Stimson; there Applegate towards Pluto; there Smith and Turner and Underwood and all the rest, the shards of the kaleidoscope that had formed a thinking pattern for so long, hurled apart.
And I? thought Hollis. What can I do? Is there anything I can do now to make up for a terrible and empty life? If only I could do one good thing to make up for the meanness I collected all these years and didn't even know was in me! But there's no one here but myself, and how can you do good all alone? You can't. Tomorrow night I'll hit Earth's atmosphere.
I'll burn, he thought, and be scattered in ashes all over the continental lands. I'll be put to use. Just a little bit, but ashes are ashes and they'll add to the land.
He fell swiftly, like a bullet, like a pebble, like an iron weight, objective, objective all the time now, not sad or happy or anything, but only wishing he could do a good thing now that everything was gone, a good thing for just himself to know about.
When I hit the atmosphere, I'll burn like a meteor.
'I wonder,' he said, 'if anyone'll see me?'
