I sing of a maiden
That is matchless;
King of all kings
To her son she chose.
He came al so still
There his mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.
He came al so still
To his mother's bour,
As dew in April
That falleth on the flour.
He came al so still
There his mother lay,
As dew in April
That falleth on the spray.
Mother and maiden
Was never none but she;
Well may such a lady
Goddes mother be.
