Sr. Mary Anne Schuman, O.C.D. composed music to a poem written by Rev. James Galvin,C.Ss.R.. In the past the Sisters would sign their work with an xyz instead of their personal names. This version was sung by the nuns in Bettendorf.

(1911-1976)

                                                                          Lady of O.

                                                              
                                                                By the seven stars of her halo
                                                               By her seven swords of woe
                                                               Oh Holy Spirit anneal my pen
                                                               To utter sweet words for the ears of men
                                                               In praise of Our Lady of O.
                                                               
                                                               With these seven O's we salute Thee
                                                               Each evening as Christmas comes;
                                                               We hail Thee adazzle with sunset gold
                                                               Repeating prophecies new and old
                                                               Like salvoes of guns and drums.
                                                              
                                                               O Woman, the Word in Thy keeping
                                                               Thy secret from God most High,
                                                               Shall soon be whispered over the earth
                                                               And men shall listen and leap for mirth
                                                               Like stars in the Christmas sky.
                                                              
                                                              O Lady, lone tent in the battle
                                                              Where our Leader awaits his time;
                                                              Though the day grow darker and Satan scorn
                                                              The tide of the battle shall veer at morn
                                                              When He sallies forth to the cheer of horn
                                                              And trumpet and timbrel-chime.
                                                              
                                                              O stalk on the brink of blossom
                                                              Shooting green through the frosty mire;
                                                              The peoples pray for thy Spring to come
                                                              And the mighty ones of the earth go dumb
                                                              For the Flower of the World's Desire.
                                                              
                                                              O Tower of Grace untrespassed

                                                              Since Eden by God's decree;
                                                              At thine ivory spire and jasper gate
                                                              The pining kindred of Adam wait
                                                              For the turning of Christ the Key.
                                                              
                                                              O Damsel more welcome than morning
                                                             To a world gone blind since the fall;
                                                             The stars go pale at Thy sandals' sound
                                                             and skylines glimmer, and men peer round
                                                             For a virgin in simplest homespun gowned
                                                             with the Sunrise under her shawl.
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                                                            O thou milk-and-honey-run Mountain
                                                            Whence the crystal Cornerstone
                                                            Shall issue unsullied by tool or hand
                                                            The Stone that shall fasten each race and land
                                                            Together like flesh and bone.
                                                            
                                                             O City ashine on the hill-tops 

                                                             The nations uplift their eyes
                                                            From rainy island and sunken sea
                                                            And the ends of the earth they throng to Thee
                                                            To dwell in thy Christ-lit skies.
                                                            
                                                           By the seven stars of Thy halo
                                                           By the seven swords of woe,
                                                           Forgive us, O Lady, these phrases worn
                                                           In praise of Thy season with God unborn
                                                           O ineffeable Lady of O.