ISAAC WATTS
Steep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment: All thy wants are well supplied.
How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven He descended And became a child like thee!
Soft and easy is thy cradle.
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His bnthplace wab a stable
And His softest bed was hay.
Blessed babe^ what glorious features Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must He dwell with brutal creatures How could angels bear the sight ?
Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford To receive the heavenly stranger ?
Did they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child I did not chide thce,
Though my song might sound too hard;
'Tis thy mother sits beside thec, And her arms shall be thy guard.
Yet to read the shameful story How the Jews abused their King,
How they served the Lord of Glory,
Makes me angry while I sing.
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