(Es ist ein Ros entsprugen)
A Rose has sprung upon the tender root,
As it was sung to us by men of old,
Of Jesse’s royal tree the finest shoot,
At half of night, in depth of winter cold;
That little Rose I sing, so chaste and mild,
The one Isaias long ago foretold,
Who bore, by God’s great providence, a Child,
Though Virgin ever after, pure as gold;
The Rose whose tiny Floret smells so sweet
Dispelling darkness with His brilliant glow;
In whose small frame divine and human meet
To spare us death and make us white as snow.
A Rose more fair, by far, than all the rest,
That all who love her Seed shall call her blest.
From Sonnets for Heaven’s Queen © Joseph Charles MacKenzie. All rights reserved.