A maiden flax upon her spindle spun,
The thread she spun was finest in the land;
The coat she’d make was for her only Son,
Who soon was off to walk through desert sands.
She wove the coat, and wonderful to see,
It was one piece, and stitches there were none;
A sorrow pierced her; no longer here He’d be,
He set off then, and for three years was gone.
When next they met, and saddest for to see,
His coat was gone, and He was wounded sore;
His back was bowed beneath a weighty tree;
All this, to save all people evermore.
Below for seamless cloth the guards threw dice:
Above he traded His death for our lives.
