The an­gels sing around the stall
Where Je­sus cra­dled lies;
The shep­herds hear the joy­ful call
That wakes the si­lent skies.
Hark! to the mu­sic float­ing by,
Ere yet its ech­oes cease!
Poured forth from an­gels’ min­strel­sy,
Is heard the song of peace.

The east­ern kings the star have seen,
They hast­en on their way;
Long time they’ve watched and wait­ing been
The dawn­ing of that day;
The dawn­ing of the day of grace,
The gleam of Ja­cob’s star,
The vir­gin’s child of Jes­se’s race,
Whom prop­hets saw afar.

And now they op­en trea­sures rare,
Which In­di­an silks en­fold;
Of myrrh, which sweet­ly scents the air,
Of frank­in­cense and gold.
Their king­ly heads they meek­ly bow
The cra­dled Babe be­fore;
Their God con­fess, and kneel­ing low
In hum­ble faith ad­ore.

With them I come to greet my king,
Yet not with them to part;
No gold, no frank­in­cense, I bring,
I offer Him my heart.
With Him to live, with Him to die,
Who by His low­ly birth,
Gave glo­ry to our God on high,
And peace to men on earth.