Beside the Manger

There in the nar­row man­ger

cold and bleak

My Lord

Thou art;

And there with­in those hands

so soft and weak

I lay my heart.

Beneath those ti­ny feet I bow my head

O bless­èd Child.

And kiss the straw that forms Thy chil­ly bed

In win­ter wild.

Show me thy won­drous Babe

O mo­ther-maid

Foretold of yore;

The trea­sure on thy vir­gin bo­som laid

Let me adore.

That small hand place upon my pros­trate brow

O mo­ther dear;

For crouch­ing in His in­fant pre­sence

I quake with fear.

A sin­ner kneel­ing at an in­fant’s cot

I call on Thee;

A sin­ner at the cross

for­get me not

But plead for me.

And thus in faith as­sured I leave my heart

Blest Child

with Thee;

A worth­less gift with which Thou wilt not part

Eternally.