From lands that see the sun arise,
To earth’s re­mot­est boun­da­ries,
The vir­gin born to­day we sing,
The Son of Ma­ry, Christ the King.

Blest Au­thor of this earth­ly frame,
To take a ser­vant’s form He came,
That li­ber­at­ing flesh by flesh,
Whom He had made might live afresh.

In that chaste par­ent’s ho­ly womb,
Celestial grace hath found its home:
And she, as earth­ly bride un­known,
Yet call that Off­spring blest her own.

The man­sion of the mo­dest breast
Becomes a shrine where God shall rest:
The pure and un­de­fil­èd one
Conceivèd in her womb the Son.

That Son, that roy­al Son she bore,
Whom Ga­bri­el’s voice had told afore:
Whom, in His mo­ther yet con­cealed,
The in­fant Bap­tist had re­vealed.

The man­ger and the straw He bore,
The cra­dle did He not ab­hor:
By milk in in­fant por­tions bed
Who gives e’en fowls their dai­ly bread.

The heav’n­ly chor­us filled the sky,
The an­gels sang to God on high,
What time to shep­herds, watch­ing lone
They made cre­ation’s Shep­herd known.

For that Thine ad­vent glo­ry be,
O Je­su, vir­gin born, to Thee!
With Fa­ther, and with Ho­ly Ghost,
From men and from the heav’n­ly host.