Come, ye lof­ty, come, ye low­ly,
Let your songs of glad­ness ring;
In a sta­ble lies the Ho­ly,
In a man­ger rests the King:
See in Ma­ry’s arms re­pos­ing
Christ by high­est Heav’n adored:
Come, your cir­cle round Him clos­ing,
Pious hearts that love the Lord.

Come ye poor, no pomp of sta­tion
Robes the Child your hearts ad­ore;
He, the Lord of all sal­va­tion,
Shares your want, is weak and poor:
Oxen, round about be­hold them;
Rafters nak­ed, cold, and bare,
See the shep­herds, God has told them
That the Prince of Life lies there.

Come, ye child­ren, blithe and mer­ry,
This one Child your mo­del make;
Christmas hol­ly, leaf, and ber­ry,
All be prized for His dear sake:
Come ye gen­tle hearts and ten­der,
Come ye spir­its keen and bold;
All in all your hom­age ren­der,
Weak and migh­ty, young and old.

High ab­ove a star is shin­ing,
And the wise men haste from far:
Come, glad hearts, and spir­its pin­ing—
For you all has ris’n the star.
Let us bring our poor obla­tions,
Thanks and love, and faith and praise;
Come, ye peo­ple, come, ye na­tions,
All in all draw nigh to gaze.

Hark the Heav’n of heav’ns is ring­ing:
Christ the Lord to man is born!
Are not all our hearts, too, sing­ing,
Welcome, wel­come, Christ­mas morn?
Still the Child, all pow­er pos­sess­ing,
Smiles as through the ag­es past;
And the song of Christ­mas bless­ing
Sweetly sinks to rest at last.