The an­them the an­gels were sing­ing,
O’er Beth­le­hem’s plains long ago,
Still down through the ag­es ring­ing,
The com­fort of mill­ions be­low;
The an­them of joy and sal­va­tion,
Of love to a sin-strick­en race,
To ev­ery kin­dred and na­tion,
Good will from the Fa­ther of peace.

The star which the wise men was guid­ing,
O’er far dist­ant lands long ago,
Is still in the hea­vens abid­ing,
The ho­ly child Je­sus to show;
Inviting the world to ad­ore Him,
To bow like the ma­gi of old,
And cast down their trea­sures be­fore Him,
The heart’s pur­est in­cense and gold.

We ga­ther this fes­tiv­al ev­en­ing,
Our Lord and our Sav­ior to seek,
With gar­lands His tem­ple adorn­ing,
With prais­es His good­ness to speak,
Far more than the shep­herd or wise men
We long the dear Sav­ior to see,
For He has said: Suf­fer the child­ren,
The child­ren to come un­to Me.