The Incarnation And Passion

RD, when Thou didst Thyself undress,     Laying by Thy robes of glory,

To make us more,

Thou wouldst be less,     And becam'st a woful story.

To put on clouds instead of light,     And clothe the morning-star with dust,

Was a translation of such height     As, but in Thee, was ne'er express'd.

Brave worms and earth ! that thus could have     A God enclos'd within your cell,

Your Maker pent up in a grave,     Life lock'd in death, heav'n in a shell !

Ah, my dear Lord ! what couldst thou spy     In this impure, rebellious clay,

That made Thee thus resolve to die     For those that kill Thee every day ?

O what strange wonders could Thee move     To slight Thy precious blood, and breath ?

Sure it was love, my Lord ! for love     Is only stronger far than death !