The holy child, who sweetly slept,
grew up and like a sinner wept
for men, who cruelly caused him grief;
he suffered from their unbelief!
This long-lost king, of truth, was made
to wear upon his brow, like braid,
a thorn crown, not as monarch proud;
His bloodstained robe was dead man\'s shroud!
This Lord of everlasting life,
whose touch could stem the streams of strife,
could not be praised by them enough:
(those saints, He\'d made of sterner stuff.)
Their long-lost friend, this Prince of Peace,
who\'d made the stormy oceans cease
and stepped upon the raging wave;
He walked alive from gloomy grave!