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mortal tongue can sing thy praise, Dear Mother of the Lord? To angels only it belongs, Thy glory to record.

Say, Mary, what sweet force was that Which from the Father's breast Drew forth His co-eternal Son, To be thy bosom's guest?

'Twas not thy guileless faith alone That lifted thee so high; 'Twas not thy pure seraphic love, Or peerless chastity.

But oh! it was thy lowliness, Well pleasing to the Lord, That made thee worthy to become The mother of the Word.

O loftiest, whose humility So sweet it was to see, That God, forgetful of Himself, Abased Himself to thee.

 

Saint, who on thy natal day To Mary's tender care was given, And did beneath her gentle sway Almost unsinniugunsinning [sic] pass to heav'n: 