There in the nar­row man­ger, cold and bleak
My Lord, Thou art;
And there with­in those hands, so soft and weak,
I lay my heart.
Beneath those ti­ny feet I bow my head,
O bless­èd Child.
And kiss the straw that forms Thy chil­ly bed
In win­ter wild.

Show me thy won­drous Babe, O mo­ther-maid,
Foretold of yore;
The trea­sure on thy vir­gin bo­som laid
Let me adore.
That small hand place upon my pros­trate brow,
O mo­ther dear;
For crouch­ing in His in­fant pre­sence
I quake with fear.

A sin­ner kneel­ing at an in­fant’s cot,
I call on Thee;
A sin­ner at the cross, for­get me not,
But plead for me.
And thus in faith as­sured I leave my heart,
Blest Child, with Thee;
A worth­less gift with which Thou wilt not part
Eternally.