Dost Thou in a man­ger lie, who hast all cre­at­ed,
Stretching in­fant hands on high, Sav­ior, long await­ed?
If a mo­narch, where Thy state? Where Thy court on Thee to wait?
Royal pur­ple where? Here no re­gal pomp we see;
Naught but need and pe­nu­ry; why thus cra­dled here?

Pitying love for fall­en man brought Me down thus low…
For a race deep lost in sin, came I in­to woe…
By this low­ly birth of Mine, sin­ner rich­es shall be thine,
Matchless gifts and free; will­ing­ly this yoke I take,
And this sac­ri­fice I make, heap­ing joys for thee.

Fervent praise would I to Thee ev­er­more be rais­ing;
For Thy won­drous love to me Thee be ev­er prais­ing.
Glory, glo­ry be for­ev­er un­to that most boun­te­ous Giv­er,
And that lov­ing Lord! Bet­ter wit­ness to Thy worth,
Purer praise than ours on earth, an­gels’ songs af­ford.