The Incarnation, And Passion

LORD, when Thou didst Thyself undress, Laying by Thy robes of glory, To make us more, Thou wouldst be less, And becam'st a woful story. To put on clouds instead of light, And clothe the morning-star with dust, Was a translation of such height As, but in Thee, was ne'er express'd. Brave worms and earth ! that thus could have A God enclos'd within your cell, Your Maker pent up in a grave, Life lock'd in death, heav'n in a shell ! Ah, my dear Lord ! what couldst thou spy In this impure, rebellious clay, That made Thee thus resolve to die For those that kill Thee every day ? O what strange wonders could Thee move To slight Thy precious blood, and breath ? Sure it was love, my Lord ! for love Is only stronger far than death !