O Beth­le­hem, sweet Beth­le­hem,
To thee my song I sing;
To thee I raise my hum­ble lay,
Thou ci­ty of the King.
Above thy courts the an­gels sang
Their bright­est ser­aph song,
And, faint­ly ec­ho­ing their re­frain,
I would their praise pro­long.

I see thy wide and wood­ed fields,
Thy roc­ky slopes and hills,
Thy val­leys deep, here wa­ters flow,
In spark­ling, tune­ful rills.
Thy bal­my air is rich with scent,
Of ol­ive and of vine,
Thy trees hang low with rip­ened fruit,
Thy vats o’er­flow with wine.

Thy shep­herd boys, like Da­vid, lead
Their flocks with win­some call,
Across thy up­lands bright, and through
Deep vales here sha­dows fall.
Thy dus­ky men and rud­dy maids
Are scat­tered ’cross the plain—
Where Ruth once fol­lowed Bo­az’ men—
And har­vest gold­en grain.

Thy mo­thers hush their babes to rest,
With hymns of Da­vid’s Lord,
Thy sing how in yon cave He came
To heav’n­ly love af­ford;
The scene is fair, and all is joy
About thy well kept walls;
Yea, sor­rows nev­er touch thy gates,
Thy hearth­stones or thy halls.

Beyond is dark­some Cal­va­ry
And sad Geth­se­ma­ne;
But sha­dows flee, bright Beth­le­hem,
Whene’er they come to thee!
Lo, as I gaze, a vi­sion breaks:
Behold, I see the Child
Lie once again in cave of stone,
All pure and un­de­filed.

The vir­gin mo­ther bends above,
To watch the face di­vine,
From which, so fair and beau­ti­ful,
Bright rays of glo­ry shine;
And oh, what long­ings fill my soul,
As I be­hold my Lord!
I fall and wor­ship at His feet,
My ev­ery sin ab­horred.

And here I pray to be like Him,
A ho­ly in­fant child,
All meek and gen­tle, sweet and good,
All pure and un­de­filed!
And so to thee, O Beth­le­hem,
My song of love I sing;
All praise to thee, sweet Beth­le­hem,
Thou ci­ty of my king!