Exite Sion filiae

Daughters of Sion! royal maids
Come, forth to see the crown,
Which Sion’s self, with cruel hands,
Hath woven for her Son.

See! how amid his gory locks
The jagged thorns appear;
See! how his pallid countenance
Foretells that death is near.

Oh, savage was the earth that bore
Those thorns so sharp and long!
Savage the hand that gather’d them
To work this deadly wrong!

But now that Christ’s immortal Blood
Hath ting’d them with its dye,
Fairer than roses they appear,
Or palms of victory.

Jesu! the thorns which pierc’d thy brow
Sprang from the seed of sin;
Pluck ours, we pray thee, from our hearts,
And plant thine own therein.

Praise, honour, to the Father be,
Praise to his only Son;
Praise to the blessed Paraclete,
While endless ages run.