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;
Through God’s great love and might
The Blessed Babe she bare us
In a cold, cold winter's night