Abstruse with principles to wade,
Through all this hardened deep,
It feels too much for finite man,
Perhaps he should make peace,
And so he search for this one thing,
Alone this final piece,
A mystery to love and hope,
To make the storming cease,

For all men hang their mysteries,
Like hats besides each door,
For all men turn within and find,
This wretch so truly poor,
And then comes mystery the rush,
The wading into soar,
The infinite for finite man,
He'd happily restore.

A blessed eve it is,
Again when those who have
All things anticipate:

All breathless beauty in a face,
The tug within each dusk and dawn,
All warmth in every deep embrace,
The coming Glory in a babe!

O to receive Him again when all is ours!

The closeness in such ordinary means,
The glory in this special grace you give,
That man would so embalm your precious life,
That man would light ablaze and truly live!