The gladness of thy Motherhood, The anguish of thy suffering, The glory now that crowns thy brow, O Virgin-Mother, we would sing. Hail, blessed Mother, full of joy In thy consent, thy visit too; Joy in the birth of Christ on earth, Joy in Him lost and found anew. Hail, sorrowing in His agony— The blows, the thorns that pierced His brow; The heavy wood, the shameful Rood— Yea! Queen and chief of Martyrs thou. Hail, in the triumph of thy Son, The quickening flames of Pentecost; Shining a Queen in light serene, When all the world is tempest-tost. O come, ye nations, roses bring, Culled from these mysteries Divine, And for the Mother of your King With loving hands your chaplets twine. We lay our homage at Thy feet, Lord Jesus, Thou the Virgin's Son, With Father and with Paraclete, Reigning while endless ages run.