Wide open to the winter air—
The very beasts could scarcely live;
No other shelter would she give.
Come, Jesus, from that hovel cold,
Exposed to all the winds that blow,
Chilled by discomfort manifold,
From the poor couch all wet with snow.
My all a couch for thee I make,
My heart the shelter thou shall take.
I give it all, I give my best,