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The Book of Praise.
Lord ! when we recal the story Of Thy lowliness and glory, Keep us, lest we fall from Thee, Through that awful mystery.
Who can fathom the abyss
Where Thou plunged'st for our love ? Who conceive the glorious bliss
Waiting on Thy steps above ? Cradled in the lowliest shed, Weeping, toiling, suffering, dead ! Mighty Monarch, throned on high, Ruling all in earth and sky !
Who is equal to these things ?
Who such mysteries can brook ? Faith, with eagle eye and wings,
Scarcely there may soar or look. Thought must seek that height in vain, All her musings turn to pain, Whelmed beneath the mighty load Of that word, Incarnate God !
Blessed, blessed be the Lord !
Who on simple souls and poor Gently has the knowledge pour'd,
Which the wise can scarce endure. Saved from sinning, happy, healed By those mystic truths revealed, Changed by power above their own, Christ to them is fully known.
Known when drawing infant breath, Known in labour and in pain,
Known victorious over death, Known in His triumphant reign.