OCR Text |
Show Our Mother. Oh! white the hawthorn blossom, That blooms In early May; And white the timid snowdrops, That peep beside the way; Yet not so white as the chaste brow That we have crowned today. Oh! sweet the breath of violets, Within the leafy bed: And sweet the scent of roses. From hearts of crimson red; But sweeter still the fragrance Thy blessed name does shed. Oh, fair the star of morning, Yet, fairer thy pure face: Let blossoms pale beside thee; Thou Rose of mystic grace; The Queen of Saints and Angels, But Mother of our race. |