Thou from the Cradle to the Grave

Thou from the cra­dle to the grave

For us to pain con­demned

A grate­ful heart Thy peo­ple give

To praise their suf­fer­ing Friend—

That Friend who longed for man to die

While yet in Ma­ry’s womb;

That God who took hu­man­ity

To lay it in the tomb.

He comes a babe

though Lord of all

In cold and want to lie;

His cra­dle is the ox­en’s stall

The straw His dra­pe­ry:

’Tis love that makes the In­no­cent

The pains of guilt to bear

The Giv­er of the law con­tent

Its pe­nal­ty to share.

That pre­cious blood which gent­ly flows

And speaks the law ob­eyed

Foreshadoweth His dy­ing woes

A lit­tle while de­layed.

The sword that slays the suck­lings now

Unsheathèd must re­main

To pierce His heart and lay Him low

With those al­rea­dy slain.

His chos­en race their God ex­pel—

An ex­ile poor He flies;

In hea­then lands He seeks to dwell

Who made the earth and skies.

O King of suf­fer­ing

King of love

All praise be paid to Thee

With Fa­ther

Spir­it

God ab­ove

Eternal Tri­ni­ty.