Some might say that it’s January and time to stop writing Christmas songs.  But, they would be wrong.

Another one done in the space before choir, live with piano (and recorded just on phone again I’m afraid) — words by, well, translated by, Catherine Winkworth, who lived really near where I live, fun fact.

A spotless Rose is blowing
Sprung from a tender root,
Of ancient seers’ foreshowing,
Of Jesse promised fruit;
Its fairest bud unfolds to light
Amid the cold, cold winter
And in the dark midnight.

The Rose which I am singing,
Whereof Isaiah said,
Is from its sweet root springing
In Mary, purest Maid;
For through our God’s great love and might
The blessed babe she bare us
In a cold, cold winter’s night.