By Condé Benoist Pallen
O cruel manger, how bleak, how bleak!
For the limbs of the Babe, my God;
Soft little limbs on the cold, cold straw;
Weep, O eyes, for thy God!
Bitter ye winds in the frosty night
Upon the Babe, my God,
Piercing the torn and broken thatch;
Lament, O heart, for thy God!
Bare is the floor, how bare, how bare