Thou from the cra­dle to the grave
For us to pain con­demned,
A grate­ful heart Thy peo­ple give
To praise their suf­fer­ing friend—
That Friend who longed for man to die,
While yet in Ma­ry’s womb;
That God who took hu­ma­ni­ty,
To lay it in the tomb.

He comes a babe, though Lord of all,
In cold and want to lie;
His cra­dle is the ox­en’s stall,
The straw His dra­pe­ry:
’Tis love that makes the In­no­cent
The pains of guilt to bear,
The Giv­er of the law con­tent
Its pe­nal­ty to share.

That pre­cious blood which gent­ly flows
And speaks the law ob­eyed,
Foreshadoweth His dy­ing woes
A lit­tle while de­layed.
The sword that slays the suck­lings now
Unsheathèd must re­main,
To pierce His heart and lay Him low
With those al­rea­dy slain.

His chos­en race their God ex­pel—
An ex­ile poor He flies;
In hea­then lands He seeks to dwell
Who made the earth and skies.
O King of suf­fer­ing, King of love,
All praise be paid to Thee,
With Fa­ther, Spir­it, God above,
Eternal Tri­ni­ty.