It is a thing most wonderful,
almost too wonderful to be,
that God’s own Son should come from heaven,
and die to save a child like me.
And yet I know that it is true:
He chose a poor and humble lot,
and wept, and toiled, and mourned, and died,
for love of those who loved him not.
I cannot tell how he would love
a child so weak and full of sin;
his love must be most wonderful,
if he could die my love to win.
I sometimes think about the cross,
and shut my eyes, and try to see
the cruel nails and crown of thorns
and Jesus crucified for me.
But even could I see him die,
I could but see a little part
of that great love, which, like a fire,
is always burning in his heart.
It is most wonderful to know
his love for me so free and sure;
but ’tis more wonderful to see
my love for him so faint and poor.
And yet I want to love thee, Lord;
O light the flame within my heart,
and I will love thee more and more,
until I see thee as thou art.
