Incarnate Word, who, wont to dwell
In lowly shape and cottage cell,
Didst not refuse a guest to be
At Cana’s poor festivity.
Oh, when our soul from care is free,
Then, Savior, may we think on Thee,
And, seated at the festal board,
In fancy’s eye behold the Lord.
Then may we seem, in fancy’s ear.
Thy manna-dropping tongue to hear,
And think—e’en now, Thy searching gaze
Each secret of our soul surveys!
So may such joy, chastised and pure,
Beyond the bounds of earth endure;
Nor pleasure in the wounded mind
Shall leave a rankling sting behind!