The day the Christ child’s ten­der eyes
Unveiled their beau­ty on the earth,
God lit a new star in the skies
To flash the mes­sage of His birth;
And wise men read the glow­ing sign,
And came to greet the Child di­vine.

Low kneel­ing in the sta­ble’s gloom,
Their pre­cious trea­sures they un­rolled;
The place was rich with sweet per­fume;
Upon the floor lay gifts of gold.
And thus ad­or­ing they did bring
To Christ the ear­li­est of­fer­ing.

I think no nim­bus wreathed the head
Of that young King so rude­ly throned;
The quilt of hay be­neath Him spread
The sleepy kine be­side Him owned;
And here and there through ragged thatch
The sky thrust in a star­ry patch.

Oh, when was new-born mo­narch shrined
Within such ca­no­py as this?
The birds have cra­dles fea­ther lined;
And for their new ba­bes prin­cess­es
Have sheets of lace with­out a flaw,
His pil­low was a wisp of straw!

He chose this way, it may have been,
That those poor mo­thers, ev­ery­where,
Whose ba­bies in the world’s great inn
Find scan­ty cra­dle-room and fare,
As did the Babe of Beth­le­hem,
May find some­what to com­fort them.

Thus was He born. And since that time
We crown the day with wreath and song;
The bells laugh out in mer­ry chime,
And he his roy­al Guest doth wrong
Who wel­comes Him with gloomy fears,
Or salts the birth­day feast with tears.