What Child Is This?

What Child is this, who laid to rest,
in churches’ yards is freezing?
A manger low, out in the snow.
Illumined plastic, so pleasing.
This, this is Christ the King,
Who knows no bounds of humility.
Chased, chased, to lowest place
To raise us up to his glory.

We find him there but cannot bear
to put our faith in his teaching.
As cars go by, it’s no wonder why
the malls seem much more pleasing.
This, this is Christ the King,
Now at the curb for recycling:
Waste! Waste! The Son of God.
The world sees nothing worth keeping.

Words, flesh, for me, for you,
He died for us. We know its true.
But how we feel on Sunday morn,
Is rarely more than the music.
This, this is Christ the King,
These things we feel when we sing,
Safe, safe, inside the church.
But outside Jesus is freezing.

Why lies the world in sorry state,
with churches faring no better?
Good Christians, we still sinners be.
Let’s go to the curbside together.
This, this is Christ the King:
Despised, rejected, and suffering.
Taste, Taste, his love for us,
The God who's there at the curbside.

So raise, raise up Christ on high,
in hearts, with hands, for ears, for eyes.
For those who ask, "What Child is this?"
May we have something worth preaching.
This, this is Christ the King
Whom churches need for everything.
Haste, haste to bring Him back,
Let us descend for his glory.