His blessed bosom hath delight
In our rejoicing lays.
His love, that never slumbers,
Taught thee those tuneful numbers.
Bethune.
But O, her richest, dearest notes to man,
In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured,
When He, whose brightness is the light of Heaven,
To earth descending, for a mortal’s form,
Laid by His glory, save one radiant mark,