Maria Rosa Mystica


Rosa Mystica, Immaculate Virgin, Mother of Grace, in honour of your Divine Son, we prostrate ourselves at your feet to implore Gods mercy. We beg for help and Grace, not relying on any merit of ours, but on kindness of your motherly heart, and confident that you will grant our urgent requests.

Hail Mary+++++++++

Rosa Mystic, Mother of Jesus, Queen of the Holy Rosary and Mother of the Church, of the Mystical body of Christ we implore the gifts of unity and peace for the anxious world, and those Graces so able to convert the souls of your erring children.

Hail Mary+++++++++

Rosa Mystica, Queen of the Apostles, pray tha many men and women may hear Christs call to priestly and religious vocations, and help them to spread The Kingdom of Jesus Christ throughout the world by the holiness of their lives and their burning zeal for the salvation of souls. Pour out your heavenly graces upon us.

Hail Mary+++++++++


by Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J.

`The Rose is a mystery'- where is it found?

Is it anything true? Does it grow on the ground?

It was made of the earth's mould, but it went from men's eyes,

And its place is a secret, and shut in the skies.

In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine

Find me a place by thee, Mother of mine.

But where was it formerly? Which is the spot

That was blest in it once, though now it is not?

It is Galilee's growth; it grew at God's will

and broke into bloom upon Nazareth Hill.

In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine

I shall look on thy loveliness, Mother of mine.

What was its season, then? How long ago?

When was the summer that saw the Bud blow?

Two thousands of years are near upon past

Since its birth, and its bloom, and its breathing its last.

In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine

I shall keep time with thee, Mother of mine.

Tell me the name now, tell me its name:

The heart guesses easily, is it the same?

Mary, the Virgin, well the heart knows,

She is the Mystery, she is that Rose.

In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine

I shall come home to thee, Mother of mine.

Is Mary that Rose, then? Mary, the Tree?

But the Blossom, the Blossom there, who can it be?

Who can her Rose be? It could be but One:

Christ Jesus, our Lord - her God and her Son.

In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine

Shew me thy son, Mother, Mother of mine.

What was the colour of that Blossom bright?

White to begin with, immaculate white.

But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood,

When the Rose ran in crimsonings down the Cross-wood.

In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine

I shall worship the Wounds with thee, Mother of mine.

How many leaves had it? Five they were then,

Five like the senses, and members of men;

Five is the number by nature, but now

They multiply, multiply, who can tell how.

In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine

Make me a leaf in thee, Mother of mine.

Does it smell sweet, too, in that holy place?

Sweet unto God, and the sweetness is grace;

The breath of it bathes the great heaven above,

In grace that is charity, grace that is love.

To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divine

Draw me by charity, Mother of mine.

Maria, Rosa Mystica - Montichiari-Fontanelle, Italy (1947)

Montichiari Italy + Rosa Mystica


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