A thousand lights their glory shed On shrines and altars garlanded; While swinging censers dusk the air With perfumed prayer. And shall we sing the ancestry Of Jesus, Son of God most High? Or the heroic names retrace Of David's race? Sweeter is lowly Nazareth, Where Jesus drew His childish breath— Sweeter the singing that endears His hidden years. An Angel leads the pilgrim band From Egypt to their native land, Where Jesus clings to Joseph's arm, Secure from harm. "And the Child grew in wisdom's ken And years and grace with God and men;" And in His father's humble art Took share and part. "With toil," saith He, "my limbs are wet, Prefiguring the Bloody Sweat:" Ah! how He bears our chastisement With sweet content! At Joseph's bench, at Jesus' side, The Mother sits, the Virgin-Bride; Happy, if she may cheer their hearts With loving arts. O Blessed Three! who felt the sting Of want and toil and suffering, Pity the needy and obscure Lot of the poor. Banish the "pride of life" from all Whom ampler wealth and joys befall: Be every heart with love repaid That seeks your aid. Glory to Thee, O Jesu dear, Model of holy living here! Who reign'st, with Sire and Holy Ghost, O'er heaven's host.