O mercy divine,
O couldst Thou incline,
My God, to become
Such an infant as mine?
What wonder of grace:
The Ancient of Days
Is found in the likeness
Of Ad­am’s frail race!

He comes from on high,
Who fashioned the sky,
And meekly vouchsafes
In a manger to lie;
Our God ever blest,
With oxen doth rest,
Is nursed by His creature
And hangs at the breast.

So heavenly-mild,
His innocence smiled,
No wonder the mother
Would worship the Child,
The angels she knew
Had worshipped Him, too,
And still they confess
Adoration His due.

On Je­sus’ face,
With eager amaze,
And pleasure ecstatic
The cherubim gaze;
Their newly born King,
Transported they sing,
And Hea­ven and earth
With the triumph doth ring.

The shepherds behold Him,
The promised of old,
By angels attended,
By prophets foretold;
The wise men adore now,
And bring Him their store,
The rich are permitted
To follow the poor.

To the inn they repair,
To see the young Heir;
The inn is a palace,
For Je­sus is there!
Who now would be great,
And not rather wait
On Je­sus their Lord
In His humble estate?

Like Him would I be,
My Mas­ter I see
In a stable; a manger
Shall satisfy me;
And here will I lie,
Till raised up on high,
With Him on the cross
I recover the sky.