He doth give His joy to all: He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near.
Oh! He gives to us His joy, That our griefs He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan.
