A spotless Rose is blowing,

Sprung from a tender root,

Of ancient seers' foreshowing,

Of Jesse promised fruit;

Its fairest bud unfolds to light

Amid the cold, cold winter,

And in the dark midnight.

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

The Blessed Babe she bare us

In a cold, cold winter's night.