Incarnate Word, Who, Wont to Dwell

Incarnate Word

who

wont to dwell

In low­ly shape and cot­tage cell

Didst not re­fuse a guest to be

At Ca­na’s poor fes­ti­vi­ty.

Oh

when our soul from care is free

Then

Sav­ior

may we think on Thee

And

seat­ed at the fest­al board

In fan­cy’s eye be­hold the Lord.

Then may we seem

in fan­cy’s ear.

Thy man­na-drop­ping tongue to hear

And think—e’en now

Thy search­ing gaze

Each sec­ret of our soul sur­veys!

So may such joy

chas­tised and pure

Beyond the bounds of earth en­dure;

Nor plea­sure in the wound­ed mind

Shall leave a rank­ling sting be­hind!