’Tis the sea­son of Christ­mas—away to the man­ger,
The place of all others where Christ­ians should prove
The zeal of dis­ci­ples to wel­come the Stran­ger
Who comes on His mis­sion of mer­cy and love.
And what tho’ His roof and re­cep­tion be low­ly,
Where only the poor and the hum­ble re­pair;
’Tis the birth­place of Christ, con­se­crat­ed and ho­ly,
’Tis the tem­ple of God­head, for Je­sus is there!

Oh, come to the man­ger—the an­gel is wing­ing
Thro’ the air, while his tid­ings are sound­ing abroad;
A le­gion of hea­ven­ly chor­is­ters sing­ing,
Good will to the na­tions, and glo­ry to God!
Hast thou not a word for that won­der­ful meet­ing?
No song in that an­them of glo­ry to share?
Awake from thy slum­bers, to join in their greet­ing,
And come to the man­ger—for Je­sus is there!

Oh, come to the man­ger—the shep­herds, ob­ey­ing
The her­ald of glo­ry, are there ev­en now;
Their fer­vent pe­ti­tions of gra­ti­tude pay­ing,
And plead­ing their feal­ty and mak­ing their vow.
Hast thou no al­le­giance to of­fer be­fore Him?
No vows of af­fect­ion, no pe­ni­tent pray­er?
Awake from thy slum­bers, pre­pare to adore Him,
And come to the man­ger—for Je­sus is there!

Oh, come to the man­ger—the star is yet shin­ing,
Undimmed by a cloud, une­clipsed by the morn;
Like cur­tains of sil­ver, its ra­di­ance in­clin­ing,
To shel­ter the couch where the Sav­ior was born.
It shines to in­vite, to as­sure, to di­rect thee,
’Tis an om­en of mer­cy—no long­er for­bear;
The shep­herds, the ma­gi, the an­gels ex­pect thee,
Come, come to the man­ger—for Je­sus is there!