A day, a day of glo­ry!
A day that ends our woe!
A day that tells of tri­umph
Against our van­quished foe!
Yield, sum­mer’s bright­est sun­rise,
To this De­cem­ber morn:
Lift up your gates, ye princ­es,
And let the child be born!

With Gloria in ex­cel­sis
Archangels tell their mirth:
With Kyrie el­ëy­son
Men an­swer up­on earth:
And an­gels swell the tri­umph,
And mor­tals raise the horn,
Lift up your gates, ye princ­es,
And let the Child be born.

He comes, His throne the man­ger;
He comes, His shrine the stall;
The ox and ass His cour­ti­ers,
Who made and go­verns all:
The House of Bread His birth-place,
The Prince of wine and corn:
Lift up your gates, ye princ­es,
And let the child be born.

Then bar the gates, that hence­forth
None thus may pas­sage win,
Because the Prince of Is­ra­el
Alone hath en­tered in:
The earth, the sky, the ocean
His glo­ri­ous way adorn:
Lift up your gates, ye princ­es,
And let the child be born.