Thou, the eter­nal Son
Though of Thy glo­ry shorn;
Thou, ve­ry God of ve­ry God
Though man of Ma­ry born—

Is there no room for Thee
Even in Beth­l’hem’s inn?
Dost Thou who com­est to Thine own
From them no wel­come win?

Dost Thou the bit­ter cross
So ea­ger­ly em­brace
For us, and we for Thee pre­pare
No poor­est dwell­ing place?

No room for Thee? No room
For love and sac­ri­fice
Such as no mor­tal could con­ceive
And none but Thou de­vise?

O sweet­est Je­sus, hear!
Though I am poor in­deed,
I know I can pro­vide a spot
To meet Thy low­ly need.

Such love as Thine must crave,
Above all oth­er things,
The love of those on whom ’tis spent,
And all that lov­ing brings.

For love is shel­ter, food,
A bed of down, a throne;
Its ve­ry breath obe­di­ence
To him whom it doth own.

Come, sweet­est Je­sus, then,
In this poor heart ab­ide;
And I shall love Thee more and more
Till love is sa­tis­fied.