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Christ Incarnate. |
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In dead of night profound, There breaks a seraph sound Of never-ending morn ; The Lord of glory born Within a holy grot on this our sullen ground.
Now with that shepherd crowd If it might be allowed, We fain would enter there With awful hastening fear, And kiss that cradle chaste in reverend worship bowed.
O sight of strange surprise That fills our gazing eyes : A manger coldly strew'd, And swaddling bands so rude, A leaning mother poor, and child that helpless lies.
Art Thou, O wondrous sight, Of lights the very Light; Who holdest in Thy hand The sky and sea and land ; Who than the glorious heavens art more exceeding bright ?
'Tis so ; faith darts before, And, through the cloud drawn o'er, She sees the God of all, Where angels prostrate fall, Adoring tremble still, and trembling still adore.
No thunders round Thee break ; Yet doth Thy silence speak From that, Thy Teacher's seat, To us around Thy feet, To shun what flesh desires, what flesh abhors to seek.
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