A spotless Rose is blowing, 
  Sprung from a tender root, 
Of ancient seers' foreshowing, 
  Of Jesse promis'd 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.