How Shall I Fitly Meet Thee?

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

For through our God's great love and might

The blessed babe she bare us

In a cold, cold winter's night