Poem For The Third Sunday Of Advent

Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!
Whereon the eternal Lord of all things made,
For us poor mortals, and our endless bliss,
Came down from heaven; and, in a manger laid
The first, rich, offerings of our ransom paid:
Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!

Consider what estate of sinful woe
Had then been ours, had he refused this birth;
From sin to sin tossed vainly to and fro,
Hell’s plaything, o’er a doomed and helpless earth!
Had he from us withheld his priceless worth,
Consider man’s estate of fearful woe!

Consider to what joys he bids thee rise,
Who comes, himself, life’s bitter cup to drain!
Ah! look on this sweet Child, whose innocent eyes
Ere all be done, shall close in mortal pain,
That thou at last Love’s Kingdom may’st attain:
Consider to what joys he bids thee rise!

Consider all this wonder, O my soul!
And in thine inmost shrine make music sweet!
Yea, let this world, from furthest pole to pole,
Join in praises this dread birth to greet;
Kneeling to kiss thy Saviour’s infant feet!
Consider all this wonder, O my soul!
-Selwyn Image

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