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 wor­shiped 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.