Within the Bethlehem of these poor hearts

Within the Bethlehem of these poor hearts, The manger of our souls, O Prince of men! Come, in Thy pity, and be born again!— Ere yet the golden Christmas-tide departs, Love, with its thousand sweet and tender arts, Shall emulate the Shepherds’ glowing zeal, Or, like the Magi from the Orient marts, Shall gold, and myrrh, and frankincense reveal.

O Babe, so rich in Thy great poverty, Give us Detachment’s grand, divorcing grace! O Babe, sublime in Thy humility, Grant us, in Thee, all pride to self-abase! O suff’ring Babe, so blissful in Thy woe, A self-denying joy, on us, bestow!