O Virgin Mother, full of grace,
The joy of Israël,
The fairest honor of our race,
More blessed than tongue can tell!
All beautiful art thou, Marie,
In thee there is no stain,
Nor grief in thy sweet company,
Consoling all man’s pain.
Delight of angels, Queen of earth,
To thy poor son dost deign,
To whom in sorrow didst give birth,
That with thee he might reign.
Pressed to thine Heart Immaculate,
His frail soul findeth rest
And all its worries there doth quit,
At thy maternal breast.
The son thy tender arms do hold
Present to God Most High.
Thus carried in thy mantle-fold,
He hath no fear to die.
To thee ’tis not too much to give
All that he doth possess.
To have thee truly is to live,
To serve thee holiness.
To all the thorns of earthly loves
How dost thou, friend, compare?
So pure thy gaze, thine eyes are doves,
And thou a lily rare.
To know himself beloved by thee
Is worth more than all gold.
Renouncing all, his heart is free
For thee, the hundredfold.
-Fr. Timothy J. Draper