It calls to me, Thy friend am I,
Thine ev'ry sin I cover;
My flesh and bone, why mournest thou?
Let thy heart be of good cheer now,
Thy debt, I have discharg'd it.
Who is the Master, where is he,
Who in perfection sketcheth
The hands this infant dear to me
Now smilingly outstretcheth?
The snow is clear, and milk is white,