There is a floure sprung of a tree

There is a floure sprung of a tree,
The rote thereof is called Jesse;
A floure of price,
There is none seche in Paradise!

This flour is faire and fresche of heue;
Hit fadés never, bot ever is new;
The blissful branche this flour on grew
Was Mary mild that bare Jesu.
A flour of grace,
Ayains all sorow hit is solas!

The sede hereof was Godés sond,
That God him selve sew with his hond
In Bedlem in that holy londe;
Amedis here herbere there he hir fond.
This blissful floure
Sprang never bot in Marys boure.

When Gabrael this maid met,
With ‘ dve Maria’ he here gret;
Betwene hem two this flour was set,
And kept was, no mon schul wit;
But on a day
In Bedlem hit con spred and spray.

When that floure began to spred,
And his blosum to brede,
Riche and pore of every lede
Thay marvelt hou this flour might sprede;
And kingés three
That blessful floure come to see.

Angeles there cam out of here toure
To loke apon this freschele floure,
Houe faire he was in his coloure,
And hou sote in his savoure,
And to behold
How soche a flour might spring in golde.

Of lilly, of rose of rise,
Of primrol, and of flour-de-lyse,
Of all the flours at my devise,
That floure of Jesse yet bers the pris,
As most of hele
To slake oure sorows every dele.

I pray youe flours of this cuntré,
Where evere ye go, where ever ye be,
Hold hup the flour of good Jesse
Fore your frescheness and youre beuté,
As fairest of all,
And ever was, and ever schall.