In her Lord His Church re­joic­es,
Whom the host of hea­ven­ly voic­es
Welcome to His earth­ly throne:
Peace from Heav’n their song re­cit­eth,
Earth to Heav’n it re­unit­eth,
Church with an­gels now are one.

To the flesh the Word is chain­èd
As it had been fore-or­dain­èd:
Unapproached by mor­tal man,
Bears a vir­gin God’s own tem­ple,
Nor ex­em­plar nor ex­am­ple,
Having since the worlds be­gan.

’Tis a mar­vel past dis­cern­ing,
That the bush with fire is burn­ing,
Yet the bush it not con­sumes;
Dews the skies give, mists the mount­ains,
Melt the clouds, the hills are fount­ains,
And the Root of Jes­se blooms.

From the Root the Flow­er up­grow­eth,
As the ora­cle fore­show­eth
Filling the rapt seer with joy:
Jesse’s Root was Da­vid’s pat­tern,
So the Rod the Vir­gin ma­tern,
And its flow­er her hea­ven­ly Boy.

Where is glad­ness more abound­ing?
Where the plum­met deep for sound­ing
Such abys­mal mys­te­ry?
Here is theme for end­less won­der;
Saints and an­gels, prais­ing, pon­der—
God an in­fant deigns to be!

Every charm the Flow­er at­tend­eth:
It to in­ner sense com­mend­eth
Seven-fold grace’s rich per­fume:
Let us in this Flow­er de­light us,
To the feast which doth in­vite us
With its fair and frag­rant bloom.

Jesu, Branch that shall not wi­ther,
May the day which brought Thee hi­ther,
Bring Thy peo­ple joy and peace:
Flower and fruit of vir­gin cul­ture,
Vital in Thy brief se­pul­ture,
Never shall Thy prais­es cease.