Behold a lit­tle child,
Laid in a man­ger bed;
The win­try blasts blow wild
Around His in­fant head;
But who is this so low­ly laid?
’Tis He by whom the worlds were made.

Alas! in what poor state
The Son of God is seen;
Why did the Lord so great
Choose out a home so mean?
That we may learn from pride to flee,
And to fol­low His hu­mi­li­ty.

Where Jo­seph plies his trade,
Lo, Je­sus la­bors, too;
The hands that all things made
An earth­ly craft pur­sue,
That wea­ry men in Him may rest,
And faith­ful toil through Him be blessed.

Among the doc­tors see
The Boy so full of grace;
Say, where­fore tak­eth He
The scho­lar’s low­ly place?
That child­ren all, with re­ver­ence meet,
May sit and learn at Je­sus’ feet.

Christ, once Thy­self a boy,
Our child­hood guard and guide;
Be Thou its light and joy,
And still with us abide,
That Thy dear love, so great and free,
May draw us ev­er­more to Thee.