Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!
Whereon the eternal Lord of all things made
For us, poor mortals, and our endless bliss,
Came down from heaven; and, in a manger laid,
The first, rich offerings of our ransom paid.
Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!
Consider what estate of fearful woe
Had then been ours had He refused this birth;
From sin to sin tossed vainly to and fro,
Hell’s playthings, o’er a doomed and helpless earth!
Had He from us withheld His priceless worth,
Consider man’s estate of fearful woe!
Consider to what joys He bids thee rise,
Who comes, Himself, life’s bitter cup to drain!
Ah! look on this sweet Child, whose innocent eyes,
Ere all be done, shall close in mortal pain,
That thou at last Love’s Kingdom may’st attain:
Consider to what joys He bids thee rise!
Consider all this wonder, O my soul:
And in thine inmost shrine make music sweet!
Yea, let the world, from furthest pole to pole,
Join in thy praises this dread birth to greet!
Kneeling to kiss thy Saviour’s infant feet!
Consider all this wonder, O my soul!
