MARY, VIRGIN AND MOTHER

Oh, Virgin Joy of all the world art thou, In whose white, fragrant steps the countless throng On souls elect doth follow God with song: Creation’s Queen, whose bright and holy brow The multitude of Saints, like stars, endow With changeful splendors, flashing far and strong: The Maid unshadow’d by the primal wrong: God’s Lily, chosen in His shrine to bow. All these thy glories are, and still a grace More high, more dread, and yet more sweet and fair, Doth bind thy royal brows, O Mary blest. God called thee Mother; yea, His sacred face The tender likeness of thine own doth wear. And thou art ours—we trust Him for the rest.