Here he painted the flower with a precious shower of Blood,
Which flowed from his wounded body.
Thereafter the Rose shines, dyed with a purple color,
And lifting its head, blushing from the brambles.
Thus the dawn reddens when it opens the Eastern gate,
And brings forth the golden beam of light to the world.
Thus the Moon, the star of the night, shines among the citizens,
Painted with the kindred light of its brother.
But it shines always, the sacred Rose always glows,
Enjoying the eternal pleasantness of spring.
Not the rainy South wind, not the burning Sirius Dog Star,
Not the freezing North wind will destroy it with wicked force.
But even the Rose itself, immediately under the malign thorns,
And struck, as if painted with the shed blood of the murex a shellfish yielding purple dye,
It shines more and more, and takes beauty
From the very evils of a harsh trial.

The Desire of the Spiritual Spouse, ibid.

Eja, come at last! Why, Spouse, O Spouse, do you delay
The joys? Why do you forsake the wretched one? Eja, come!
The earth provokes the gem-bearing pastures into flower,
And the fragrant vine takes up its vine-leaf cloak.
Here it pours new lilies for you from full baskets,
Here the nourishing fig tree births its sweet food.