Lo, a fair Rose abloom­ing
From ten­der root hath sprung,
Of Jes­se’s lin­eage com­ing,
As men afore­time sung;
It bears a flow­er­et bright,
While reigns the cold mid­win­ter
And dark­est is the night.

The lit­tle Rose I’m sing­ing,
Whereof Isai­ah spoke,
Mary to us is bring­ing,
A maid of hum­ble folk;
By God’s eter­nal might
For us a child she bear­eth,
While dark­est is the night.

The Flow­er­et is so low­ly,
Whose frag­rance none can tell,
With bright­ness strange and ho­ly
Doth all our dark dis­pel;
True Man, true God is He;
From ev­ery ill He sav­eth;
God grant we saved may be!