How beauteous were the marks divine,

That in thy meekness used to shine,

That lit thy lonely pathway, trod

In wondrous love, O Son of God!

O, who like thee,—so calm, so bright,

So pure, so made to live in light?

O, who like thee did ever go

So patient through a world of woe?

O, who like thee so humbly bore

The scorn, the scoffs, of men before?

So meek, forgiving, godlike, high,

So glorious in humility?

The bending angels stooped to see

The lisping infant clasp thy knee,

And smile, as in a father’s eye,

Upon thy mild divinity.

And death, which sets the prisoner free,

Was pang and scoff and scorn to thee;

Yet love through all thy torture glowed,

And mercy with thy life-blood flowed.

O, in thy light be mine to go,

Illuming all my way of woe;

And give me ever on the road

To trace thy footsteps, Son of God!