HYMN LIII. The Infant Saviour, a Carol

O! SIGHT of Anguish, view it near, What weeping Innocence is here! A Manger for a Bed, The Brutes yield Refuge to his Woe, Men the worst Brutes, no Pity shew, Nor give him friendly Aid.

Why do no rapid Thunders roll? Why do no Tempests rack the Pole? O Miracle of Grace! Or why no Angel on the Wing? Warm for the honour of their King, T' exterpate all the Race.

Did He, that Infant bath'd in Tears, Call into Form the rolling Spheres? Did Seraphs wait his Nod? Helpless he calls, but Man delays; The moral Chaos disobeys, This Offspring of a God.

Say, radiant Seraphs, thron'd in Light, Did Love e'er tow'r so high a Flight! Or Glory sink so low! This Wonder Angels scarce declare, Angels the Rapture scarce can bear, Or equal Praise bestow.

Redemption 'tis a boundless Theme! Thou boundless Mind, our Hearts inflame, With Ardour from Above; Words are but faint, let Joy express; Vain is meer Joy, let Actions bless, This Prodigy of Love.