Word of God, eternal Son, From Thy throne by pity won, Let us at Thy cradle kneel, And Thine infant sorrows feel. Holy Babe, the sinner’s woe Guiltless Thou art doomed to know; Sobs that from Thy cradle rise Tell before of dying cries. Poor art Thou, that we may be Blest by Thy hard poverty; Thou art weeping, and Thy grief Flows that we may find relief. Thou art clothed in raiment mean, Dwelling in a cave unclean; Man is proud—the only great Scorneth not the lowliest state. Jesu, Thee the Father gave, Such His love, the earth to save; Ransomed at so vast a cost, Let us not, good Lord, be lost. Offspring of the holy maid, Endless praise to Thee be paid; Equal praise, O Father, be With the Spirit paid to Thee.