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O Mercy Divine
How couldst Thou incline,
My God, to become such an infant as mine?

What a wonder of grace!
The Ancient of days
Is found in the likeness of Adam's frail race.

He comes from on high,
Who fashion'd the sky,
And meekly vouchsafes in a manger to lie.

Our God ever blest
With oxen doth rest,
Is nurst by his creature and hangs at the breast.

So heavenly mild
His innocence smil'd,
No wonder the mother should worship the child.

The angels she knew
Had worshipp'd him too,
And still they confess adoration His due.

On Jesus's face,
With eager amaze,
And pleasure extatic the cherubim gaze,

Their newly-born King
Transported they sing,
And heav'n and earth with the triumph doth ring.

The shepherds behold
Him promis'd of old,
By angels attended, by prophets foretold.

The wise-men adore,
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 stable shall satisfy me.

With him I reside:
The manger shall hide
Mine honour; the manger shall bury my pride.

And here will I lie,
Till rais'd up on high
With him on the cross I recover the sky.