Feast of the Annunciation of B. V. M.

What mortal tongue can sing thy praise,

Dear Mother of the Lord?

To angels only it belongs,

Thy glory to record.

Say, Mary, what sweet force was that

Which from the Father's breast

Drew forth His co-eternal 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.

O loftiest, whose humility

So sweet it was to see,

That God, forgetful of Himself,

Abased Himself to thee.