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16 How helpless seems this Infant God, How weak his little form! Yet nature trembles at his nod, He rules the wintry storm.

When I am helpless, weak, or low, I will not grieve or sigh, For I will think my Lord was so, Though he was God most high.

Oh, let me love the paths he trod, And strive like him to be; Since he, although my Lord and God, Has lov'd to be like me.

 

evening is closing: the branches among The little birds nestling, have finish'd their song; The mother bird's wings o'er her young ones are spread, And the stars, one by one, now peep out overhead.

Oh, the foxes have holes, and each bird has its nest, But I know of One who found nowhere to rest; A stranger he walk'd through the world he had made, And found not a place where to pillow his head. 