Ah, did no thought of Bethlehem's piteous scene, The infant's cry, the mother's piercing shriek, Cloud the calm beauty of thy brow serene,

And blanch the roses of thy fair young cheek?

Thy child, with fond caress,

And love intense toward one so holy, yet so weak?

Or did experience of God's truth awaken

Calmness and strength within thy thoughtful mind Bracing thy spirit meek to faith unshaken,

To perfect confidence and will resigned,

Till every danger past,

To Nazareth at last,

Brought by thy heavenly guide a quiet home to find.

Still from that innocent and wondrous Child,
'Twas thine to learn faith's lesson high and holy,
Whenever he looked up, and gently smiled
In thy sweet face, His mother pure and lowly;
While His untroubled sleep,

Taught thee, thine heart to keep

Unmoved by earthly joy, or downcast melancholy.

Oh if thou wert, as we may well conceive,
Of thy sweet sex the lowliest, meekest known,
Thee above all would it most deeply grieve,

That aught like worship should to thee be shown.
The incense and the shrine

Would never have been thine,

With horror deep disclaimed, as due to God alone.

For thou wert woman only, born in sin
The heir alike with all, of that deep taint

Of creatures fallen, and corrupt within,

Who breathe of conscious sin their deep complaint, And like the captive, sigh

And pine for liberty,

Made by God's grace alone a lovely, lowly saint.

And still we hear thee in the inspired word,
Singing thy song with sweet exultant voice,
"My soul doth magnify the living Lord,
My Spirit in MY SAVIOUR doth rejoice,"

None e'er a Saviour sought,

But contrite sinners bought

By his most costly blood, the objects of His choice.

"He poureth water into a basen, and began to wash the Discrpies fict

JE. LAVE LES LIET, DE FES DISTILES