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 Nay, more! The very King of Kings Was with you, coming to His own: They thrust Him forth to lowliest things; The poor, meek beasts of toil alone Stood by, when came to piteous birth The God of all the earth.

And she, our Mother Ireland, knows Insult, and infamies of wrong: Her innocent children clad with woes, Her weakness trampled by the strong: And still upon her Holy Land Her pitiless foemen stand.

From Manger unto Cross and Crown Went Christ: and Mother Mary passed Through Seven Sorrows, and sat down Upon the Angel Throne at last. Thence, Mary! to thine own Child pray, For Ireland's hope this day!

She wanders amid winter still, The dew of tears is on her face: Her wounded heart takes yet its fill Of desolation and disgrace. God still is God! And through God she Foreknows her joy to be.

The snows shall perish at the spring, The flowers pour fragrance round her feet: Ah, Jesus! Mary! Joseph! bring This mercy from the Mercy Seat! Send it, sweet King of Glory, born Humbly on Christmas Morn!