There was a briar in a wood
As dead as any stone,
But see what from its stem has grown:
O what am I, that from my bark
A lively rose should bloom?
When all the world was cold and dark:
Pure as the priestly frankincense,
As sweet as any myrrh,
Than earthly fragrance lovelier:
I was the lowest in the wood,
The least of any tree;
But now the high bow down to me:
Am I not blessed with this my rose,
More blessed than any thing?
Then greet me all, and with me sing