A Spotless Rose is growing, 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; Through God's great love and might The Blessed Babe she bare us In a cold, cold winter's night.
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