Incarnate Word, who, wont to dwell
In low­ly shape and cot­tage cell,
Didst not re­fuse a guest to be
At Ca­na’s poor fes­ti­vi­ty.

Oh, when our soul from care is free,
Then, Sav­ior, may we think on Thee,
And, seat­ed at the fest­al board,
In fan­cy’s eye be­hold the Lord.

Then may we seem, in fan­cy’s ear.
Thy man­na-drop­ping tongue to hear,
And think—e’en now, Thy search­ing gaze
Each sec­ret of our soul sur­veys!

So may such joy, chas­tised and pure,
Beyond the bounds of earth en­dure;
Nor plea­sure in the wound­ed mind
Shall leave a rank­ling sting be­hind!