Where is this blessed Babe
That hath made
All the world so full of joy
And expectation;
That glorious Boy
That crowns each nation
With a triumphant wreath of blessedness?
Where should He be but in the throng,
And among
His angel-ministers, that sing
And take wing
Just as may echo to His voyce,
And rejoyce
When wing and tongue and all
May so procure their happiness?
But He hath other waiters now;
A poor cow,
An ox and mule stand and behold,
And wonder,
That a stable should enfold
Him that can thunder.
Chorus.
O what a gracious God have we!
How good? how great? Even as our misery.
