0 Philomena, martyr maiden fair,
We love thee with the rose-wreath on thy hair!
Thou, clasping close thy green immortal palm,
Plead'st strong and sweet for us in Heaven's calm
With Him who bids thee succour every need.
He says not nay when thou dost intercede,
Then, mighty martyr, help us through life's race
And show us at the Gates of Gold, thy face.