In the filthy feed trough born,
You, you of lofty origin come;
How of your nobility shorn
Did you our humanity plumb?

It is a mystery that makes us dumb
And weep for our ignoble birth,
And leaves us in our sin—numb
Feeling our righteousness's dearth.

How in that dirty little stable
Could you come as the king
Wrapped in death's dire garb able
To save a people from death's sting?

I cannot comprehend humility
So great as this I see in you—
My magnificent Savior, the utility
Of which to you the glory will accrue.