Thy manger is

My paradise,

O Jesus Christ!

Where feeds my soul delighted.

There ’fore mine eyes

The Word now lies,

Who to our flesh

In person is united.

Whom wind and sea

Obey, e’en He

In servant’s form

And place for men’s appearing.

God’s own Son, Thou

Assumest now

Clay weak and mean,

Such as our own, art wearing!

Thou, highest Good!

Dost raise our blood

Up to Thy throne,

High o’er all heights whatever!

Pow’r endless, Thou

Art brother now

To us who like

The grass and flowers, wither!

What harm can do

Our soul’s dread foe

To us at all,

Though full of gall his spirit?

The things that he

Accuseth me

And others of,

From Adam we inherit.

Be silent, fiend!

There sits my Friend,

My flesh and blood,

High in the heav’ns enthronèd:

What Thou dost smite

The Prince of might

From Jacob’s stem

With honours high hath ownèd.

His health and light,

Heal and give sight,

And heaven’s Joy

All earthly ill undoeth.

Immanuel,

Of joy the Well,

The devil, hell,

And all their pow’r subdueth.

Believing heart,

Whoe’er thou art,

Be of good cheer,

Let nothing e’er depress thee;

Because God’s Son

Makes thee God’s own,

God must prove true

To thee, and ever bless thee.

Now think and see

How gloriously,

He over all

Distress hath thee uplifted.

He who reigns o’er

The angels, more

Than thou art, is

With blessedness not gifted.

Lo! seest thou

Before thee now,

Thy flesh and blood,

Who air and clouds rules ever.

What can there be

(I ask of thee)

That can arise,

To fear thee to deliver?

Things oft affright

Thy feeble sight

And make thee sigh,

Thy consolations vanish:

Come hither, then,

Behold again

Christ’s manger here,

And all misgivings banish.

Though plagued with care,

Yet ne’er despair!

Thy Brother ne’er

Thy misery disdaineth;

His gracious heart

Feels every smart,

Nor when He sees

Our woe, from tears refraineth.

To Him now go,

He’ll help bestow

And rest, and thou

Good cause shalt have for blessing.

Full well He knows

What burns and glows,

What on the heart

Of each sick one is pressing.

He therefore bore

The wrath so sore

Of the dread cross

In His flesh, shrinking never,

That through His pain

He might retain

The memory

Of our distresses ever.

The gate is He

That leadeth me

To present joy,

And to eternal blessing.

He soon doth send

A happy end

To all the grief

On pious heart that’s pressing.

The world’s base pelf

Leave to itself,

And make thou sure,

This treasure thine remaineth.

It firmly keep

Nor let it slip,

It there a crown

For soul and body gaineth!