Quis te canat mortalium

What mortal tongue can sing thy praise,
Dear Mother of the Lord?
To Angels only it belongs
Thy glory to record. •

Who born of man can penetrate
Thy soul’s majestic shrine?
Who can thy mighty gifts unfold,
Or rightly them divine?

Say, Virgin, what sweet force was that,
Which from the Father’s breast
Drew forth his coetemal Son,
To be thy bosom’s guest?

’Twas not thy guileless faith alone,
That lifted Thee so high;
’Twas not thy pure seraphic love,
Or peerless chastity:

But, oh! it was thy lowliness,
Well pleasing to the Lord,
That made Thee worthy to become
The Mother of the Word.

Oh, Loftiest!—whose humility
So sweet it was to see!
That God, forgetful of Himself,
Abas’d Himself to Thee!

Praise to the Father, with the Son,
And Holy Ghost, through Whom
The Word eternal was conceiv’d
Within the Virgin’s womb.