A spotless Rose
Herbert Howells
A spotless Rose is blowing,
Sprung from a tender root,
Of ancient seers' foreshowing,
Of Jesse promised fruit
Its fairest bud unfolds yo light
Amid the cold, cold winter,
and in the dark mid-night.
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.