As much have I of worldly good

As e’er my Master had;

I diet on as dainty food,

And am as richly clad;

Though plain my garb, though scant my hoard,

As Mary’s Son and nature’s Lord.

2 The manger was his infant bed,

His home the mountain cave;

He had not where to lay his head—

He borrowed e’en his grave;

Earth yielded him no resting-spot;

Her Maker, but she knew him not.

3 As much the world’s good-will I share,

Its favors and applause,

As he whose blessed name I bear,

Hated without a cause;

Despised, rejected, mocked by pride,

Betrayed, forsaken, crucified.

4 Why should I court my Master’s foe?

Why should I fear its frown?

Why should I seek for rest below?

Or sigh for brief renown?

A pilgrim to a better land,

An heir of joy at God’s right hand.