A Flower has blossomed in this land
'Twas planted by no mortal hand.
A Flower so fair, so clear of hue,
Ever its leaves are fresh and new.
Come! Lords and Ladies, see this thing,
It grows for our souls' bettering.
O, lovely Flower!
Blossom and thorn of Mary's bower.

This Flower it is so pretty a thing,
It holds remede for sorrowing,
So sweet a sap runs in its veins
As may subdue all griefs and pains.
If any man lack heart or mood,
Straightway it maketh these losses good.
O, Flower of price!
Sing we, sing we of Paradise

This Flower, that is of such nature,
Surely it grows in green pasture,
Beside some willow-hidden brook
Where in all day the skies look.
It grows for all the World to see,
It grows beside a bitter Tree.
O, Flower of Grace!
That is, for all our sins, solace.