The swaddling clothes of infancy
Envelop Him no more;
The manger could not hold Him
Nor the things that once He wore.
He took a towel and girt Himself
And washed disciples' feet;
He wore it in humility
And would make us as meek.
The purple robe that mocked Him
Lies crumpled on the floor;
They could not mar His majesty,
Of kings the King, of lords the Lord.
He seamless robe, the symbol
Of perfected humanity,
Lies underneath the cross,
His gift to you and me.
A vesture dipped in blood He wore
Who is Faithful, Who is True,
In righteousness to judge and war
And make creation new.
The tomb is dark and empty,
Save the linen cloth He wore
In death, for He is risen
And lives forevermore.
And now He clothes Himself with light,
With honor and majesty,
The mighty God, the Holy One,
Forever exalted, He.
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