A Hymn of St. Winefrid

As the fragrant rose in pleasing spring,
To God's own Son a spouse most dear,
A martyr rare of Christ our King,
St. Winefrid did flourish here.

Descended great of British race,
In faith was firm, in hope secure,
With holy works and soul of grace,
From worldly filth preserved pure.

Caradock this sacred maiden slew,
Because she did resist his lust;
But heaven's immediate vengeance flew,
And doomed his soul for ever curst.

Stained with spots of reeking blood,
Where Caradock's sword sever'd the head,
A healing stream immediate flow'd,
Perpetual token of the deed.

Here God supreme doth wonders work,
The blind to see, the dumb to speak;
Diseases which in bodies lurk,
Are cur'd where faith is not too weak.

O glorious Virgin Winefrid,
To us the raging sea appease;
And free us so from Satan's dread,
That he on us may never seize.