Immanuel, Immanuel, the word
‘Whom shall we send?’ has echoed through all years;
Now in time's fulness the response appears,
‘Behold, I come to do thy will, O Lord.’
‘Whom shall we send?’ Like touch-vibrating chord
The Angel of the Presence seeks our shade,
And there in Nazareth, of man abhorred,
Our God asks dwelling of a Mortal-Maid.
‘Through thee are one the twain whom sin would sever,
Through thee comes back the gift whence Eva fell;
Ave, Maria, Full of grace for ever,
Thou art the Mother of Immanuel.’
Mother of God, swift answering, ‘Let it be,’
For thy meek faith we render, ‘Hail,’ to thee.