1 Incarnate Word, who, wont to dwell
In lowly shape and cottage cell,
Didst not refuse a guest to be
At Cana’s poor festivity.

2 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.

3 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!

4 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!