Incarnate God! what tongue can tell
The mystery of Em­ma­nu­el?
What hu­man lyre, what an­gel choir,
Can sing that mar­vel pass­ing ken,
The Word made flesh for sin­ful men?

Thine ad­vent, Lord, was pain and shame,
Our world from Sa­tan to re­claim;
Oh, grace un­known, that from Thy throne
Thou cam’st to be des­pised of those
Thy love would res­cue from their woes.

A man of sor­rows, man of grief—
As if Thou wert the ve­ry chief
Of sin­ners lost, Thou cam’st the Host
O spot­less Lamb of God, to be
For man, his soul from death to free.

Yes, Thou was wound­ed, bruised, and torn,
That we might heal­èd be, and born
To life again, and saved from pain;
And yet from Thee we hid our face,
Who came from guilt to cleanse our race.

When, Je­su, Thou shalt come once more,
Not poor and low­ly as of yore,
But clothed in light, and full of might,
More glo­ri­ous than ten thou­sand days,
With an­gels peal­ing forth Thy praise.

The clouds of Hea­ven Thy cha­ri­ot-throne,
And crowned with ma­jes­ty Thine own,
Grant I may stand on Thy right hand,
A sin­ner, yet ab­solved by Thee,
And wor­thy made Thy face to see.

With ea­ger eyes and long­ing heart
Thy Church would see Thee as Thou art;
Oh, hear her cry, her lone-lorn sigh,
And hast­en, Lord, the pro­mised hour,
When she will reach her brid­al bow­er.