Come, ye re­deem­èd of the Lord,
Your grate­ful trib­ute bring;
And ce­le­brate with one ac­cord,
The birth­day of our king.

Let us with hum­ble hearts re­pair—
Faith will point out the road—
To little Beth­le­hem; and there
Adore our in­fant God.

In swad­dling bands the Sav­ior view!
Let none this weak­ness scorn;
The feeb­lest heart shall hell sub­due,
Where Je­sus Christ is born.

No pomp ad­orns, no sweets per­fume,
The place where Christ is laid;
The sta­ble serves Him for His room;
A man­ger is His bed.

The crowded inn, like sin­ners’ hearts—
O ig­no­rance ex­treme!
For oth­er guests of va­ri­ous sorts
Had room; but none for Him.

But see what dif­fer­ent thoughts arise
In ours and an­gels’ breasts:
To hail His birth they left the skies;
We lodged Him with the beasts.

Yet let be­liev­ers cease their fears,
Nor en­vy heav’n­ly pow­ers;
If sin­less in­no­cence be theirs,
Redemption all is ours.