Jesus, Jesus, Jesus

And art Thou come, dear Saviour? Hath Thy love

Thus made Thee stoop, and leave Thy throne above

The lofty Heaven's, and thus to dress

In dust to visit us mortals! Could no less

A condescension serve? And after all

The mean reception of a cratch - a stall

Dear Lord, I'll fetch thee hence, I have a room -

'Tis poor, but 'tis my best - if Thou wilt come

Within so small a cell, where I would fain

Mine and the world's Redeemer entertain.

I mean my heart, 'Tis filthy, I confess,

And will not mend Thy Lodgings Lord unless

Thou send before Thine harbinger - I mean

Thy pure and purging Grace - to make it clean

And sweep its innermost corners: then I'll try

To wash it also with a sweeping eye,

And when 'tis swept and washed, I then will go

And with thy leave, I'll fetch some flowers that grow

In Thine own Garden - Faith and Love to Thee

With these I'll dress it up, and there shall be

My Rosemary and Bays. Yet when my best

Is done, the room's not fit for such a Guest.

But here's a cure - Thy presence, Lord, alone

Can make the stall a Court, the cratch a Throne.

( Anon.)

See an original drawing of Jesus, our Creator
by Ann Trollope from the parish of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary

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