Classic Poem

Flower of roses, angels' joy,
Tower of David, Ark of Noy,
First of saints whose true protecting
Of the young and weak in sprite
Makes my soul these lines endite
To thy throne her plaint directing;

Orphan child alone I lie,
Childlike to thee I cry,
Queen of Heaven, used to cherish;
Eyes of grace, behold I fall;
Ears of pity, hear my call
Lest in swadling clouts I perish.

Hide the greatness of each fault;
My desert, if there be aught,
By thy merits be enlarged
That the debts wherein I fall,
Paying nought but owing all,
By thy prayer be discharged.

Pray to Him whose shape I bear,
By thy love, thy care, thy fear,
By thy glorious birth and breeding,
That though our sins touch the sky
Yet his mercies mount more high,
All his other works exceeding.

Tell Him that in strength'ning me
With His grace he graceth thee,
Every little one defending;
Tell Him that I cloy thine ears
With the cry of childish tears
From his footstool still ascending.

Hear my cries and grant me aid,
Perfect mother, perfect maid;
Hear my cries to thee addressed;
From my plaints turn not thy face,
Humble and yet full of grace,
Pure, untouched, for ever blessed.