Virgin mo­ther, oh, re­joice!
Glad and hon­ored is thy womb,
Where the Son of God Him­self
Deigns our na­ture to as­sume:
Joy be to thy fruit­ful breast,
For the Son of God lies there;
Very God, a hu­man child,
Is thy high and ho­ly care.

He, the Fa­ther’s on­ly Son,
And by whom all things were made,
Helpless, clothed in mor­tal flesh,
In thy ten­der arms is laid:
He in Hea­ven is the source
Whence the joy of an­gels flows,
Here on earth, an in­fant weak,
Thirst and hun­ger both He knows.

There He rules o’er all that are,
Here He doth His mo­ther’s will;
There He gives His high com­mands,
Here com­mands He doth ful­fill;
There on high­est throne He sits
Far above the vault­ed skies,
Here en­wrapped in swad­dling clothes
In a man­ger low He lies.

Mortal, think up­on these things,
Study well the depth to know
Of the all em­brac­ing love
Which these won­drous les­sons show:
Of for­giv­eness lose not hope,
Though thou mayst have sin­nèd much,
When the proofs of love abound,
When the proofs of love are such.

Seek the bless­èd fount and source
Whence in­dul­gence flows to all,
And be­fore the Sav­ior’s feet
In con­fid­ing meek­ness fall—
Jesu, on the err­ing look,
All the wan­der­ers re­store,
And amid Thy hosts re­deemed
Set them safe for­ev­er­more.