The year be­gins with Thee,
And Thou be­ginn’st with woe,
To let the world of sin­ners see
That blood for sin must flow.

Thine in­fant cries, O Lord,
Thy tears up­on the breast,
Are not enough—the le­gal sword
Must do its stern be­hest.

Like sac­ri­fi­cial wine
Poured on a vic­tim’s head
Are those few pre­cious drops of Thine,
Now first to of­fer­ing led.

They are the pledge and seal
Of Christ’s un­swerv­ing faith
Giv’n to His Sire, our souls to heal,
Although it cost His death.

They to His Church of old,
To each true Jew­ish heart,
In Gos­pel grac­es ma­ni­fold
Communion blest im­part.

Now of Thy love we deem
As of an ocean vast,
Mounting in tides against the stream
Of ag­es gone and past.

Both theirs and ours Thou art,
As we and they are Thine;
Kings, pro­phets, pa­tri­archs—all have part
Along the sac­red line.

By blood and wa­ter, too,
God’s mark is set on Thee,
That in Thee ev­ery faith­ful view
Both co­venants might see.

O bond of un­ion, dear
And strong as is Thy grace!
Saints, part­ed by a thou­sand years,
May thus in heart em­brace.

Is there a mourn­er true,
Who, fallen on faith­less days,
Sighs for the heart-con­sol­ing view
Of those Heav’n deigned to praise?

In spirit may’st thou meet
With faith­ful Ab­ra­ham here,
Whom soon in Ed­en thou shalt greet
A nurs­ing fa­ther dear.

Would’st thou a po­et be?
And would thy dull heart fain
Borrow of Is­rael’s min­strel­sy
One high en­rap­tured strain?

Come here thy soul to tune,
Here set thy feeble chant,
Here, if at all be­neath the moon,
Is ho­ly Da­vid’s haunt.

Art thou a child of tears,
Cradled in care and woe?
And seems it hard, thy ver­nal years
Few ver­nal joys can show?

And fall the sounds of mirth
Sad on thy lone­ly heart,
From all the hopes and charms of earth
Untimely called to part?

Look here, and hold thy peace:
The Giver of all good
E’en from the womb takes no re­lease
From suf­fer­ing, tears, and blood.

If thou would’st reap in love,
First sow in ho­ly fear:
So life a win­ter’s morn may prove
To a bright end­less year.