And teach our hearts 'tis goodness, still, I hate the sins that made thee mourn,

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid;

2 Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining,
Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall;
Angels adore him in slumbers reclining,
Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all.

3 Say, shall we yield him in costly devotion,
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine?

Gems from the mountain, and pearls from the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?

4 Vainly we offer each ample oblation,
Vainly with gold would his favor secure ;
Richer by far is the heart's adoration,
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.