Hark! the her­ald angels sing­ing,
In the night o’er Ju­dah’s plain;
Messages of mer­cy bring­ing
To a realm of sin and pain.
Glory be to God above you,
Peace to mor­tals here be­low;
God the Fa­ther stoops to love you,
And His rich­est gift be­stow.

Far above the hosts in glo­ry
Lived and reigned th’eter­nal Son,
Praised in rap­tur­ous song and sto­ry,
Served as God’s be­lov­èd One;
But ’twas He the Fa­ther gave us—
Gave to weep, to bleed, to die,
With His pre­cious blood to save us,
And our hearts to sanc­ti­fy.

To achieve the soul’s sal­va­tion,
Must the Lord of glo­ry die?
Would no oth­er rich obla­tion
Truth and jus­tice sa­tis­fy?
Could not some less obla­tion
Quench the wrath and stay the blow?
No; to pur­chase our sal­va­tion
Blood di­vine must free­ly flow.

On a cross of shame and ang­uish
Must that pre­cious blood be spilt;
There the Son of God must lang­uish,
Bleed and die for hu­man guilt.
Yes, though Hea­ven bows be­fore Thee,
Sinners nailed Thee to the cross;
Ours the shame, but Thine the glo­ry,
Ours the gain, but Thine the loss.