A spotless Rose is blowing, Sprung from a tender root, Of ancient seers' foreshowing, Of Jesse promised fruit; Its fairest bud unfolds to light And in the dark midnight, Amid the winter cold, A spotless Rose unfolds.
The Rose which I am singing, Whereof Isaiah said, Is from its sweet root springing, In Mary, purest Maid; For, through our God's great love and might, And in the dark midnight, Amid the winter cold, The blesse'd Babe she bare.