1 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.

2 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.

3 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.

4 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.