Cold was the night in win­ter wild,
When in her arms the maid­en mild,
Enfolds her first, the Hea­ven born Child;
And whilst the mo­ther ov­er Him hung,
This car­ol from the an­gels’ tongue,
In strange mys­te­ri­ous tones is sung:

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Gloria in ex­cel­sis Deo;
Et in ter­ra pax ho­mi­ni­bus;
Bonæ bonæ vo­lun­ta­tis.

The stars sit still in deep amaze,
In so­lemn si­lence stead­fast gaze,
While list­en­ing to th’an­gel­ic lays;
Then waft­ed high, in joy­ous time,
The songs in loud har­mo­ni­ous chime,
To Hea­ven’s bright em­py­re­an climb.

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And doth this stall, in shad­ed gloom,
Contain the fruit of Ma­ry’s womb,
For whom the world could not make room?
O grace, all praise of men above,
O Son, be­yond all depth of love,
How do these our all pass­ions move!

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On thro’ the bright­est day of days,
We, with its choir, our voic­es raise,
Sing ju­bi­lee in thank­ful praise;
To God on high be glo­ry meet,
To earth­born Son—to Pa­ra­clete—
In this good­will, in mu­sic sweet.

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