O Mercy Divine, O Couldst Thou Incline

O mer­cy di­vine

O couldst Thou in­cline

My God

to be­come

Such an in­fant as mine?

What won­der of grace:

The An­cient of Days

Is found in the like­ness

Of Ad­am’s frail race!

He comes from on high

Who fa­shioned the sky

And meek­ly vouch­safes

In a man­ger to lie;

Our God ev­er blest

With ox­en doth rest

Is nursed by His crea­ture

And hangs at the breast.

So heav­en­ly-mild

His in­no­cence smiled

No won­der the mo­ther

Would wor­ship the Child

The an­gels she knew

Had wor­shiped Him

too

And still they con­fess

Adoration His due.

On Je­sus’ face

With eager am­aze

And plea­sure ec­sta­tic

The cher­ub­im gaze;

Their newl­y born king

Transported they sing

And Heav­en and earth

With the tri­umph doth ring.

The shep­herds be­hold Him

The pro­mised of old

By an­gels at­tend­ed

By pro­phets fore­told;

The wise men ad­ore now

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 man­ger

Shall sa­tis­fy me;

And here will I lie

Till raised up on high

With Him on the cross

I re­co­ver the sky.