O Son divine! we fain would trace
Thy mother's steps so lowly,
Her joys and woes, her saintly grace,
Her life so calm and holy.

But lo! as all too near we press,
A veil the scene enfoldeth!

No tongue may sing its loveliness,
No eye its peace beholdeth.

On Jordan's bank the Baptist's cry
Announces that the Lord is nigh;
Awake, and hearken, for he brings
Glad tidings of the King of kings.

Then cleansed be every Christian breast,
And furnished for so great a guest;
Yea, let us each our hearts prepare
For Christ to come and enter there.

For Thou art our salvation, Lord,
Our refuge and our great reward;
Without Thy grace we waste away,
Like flowers that wither and decay.

To heal the sick stretch out Thine hand,
And bid the fallen sinner stand,

Once more upon thy people shine,
And fill the world with love divine.

All praise, eternal Son, to Thee,
Whose Advent set Thy people free;
Whom with the Father we adore,
And Holy Ghost for evermore.