The Incarnation, And Passion

LORD, when Thou didst Thyself undress,

    Laying by Thy robes of glory,

To make us more, Thou wouldst be less,

    And becam'st a woful story.

To put on clouds instead of light,

    And clothe the morning-star with dust,

Was a translation of such height

    As, but in Thee, was ne'er express'd.

Brave worms and earth ! that thus could have

    A God enclos'd within your cell,

Your Maker pent up in a grave,

    Life lock'd in death, heav'n in a shell !

Ah, my dear Lord ! what couldst thou spy

    In this impure, rebellious clay,

That made Thee thus resolve to die

    For those that kill Thee every day ?

O what strange wonders could Thee move

    To slight Thy precious blood, and breath ?

Sure it was love, my Lord ! for love

    Is only stronger far than death !