Hail to the morn that dawns on east­ern hills,
More ra­di­ant far than any earth­ly morn;
’Tis hea­ven­ly light that all crea­tion fills—
The Christ is born.

Mystery pro­found, through all the ag­es sealed,
Now, to a world all hope­less, and for­lorn,
In Beth­le­hem’s man­ger is at length re­vealed—
The Christ is born.

Lo, from their watch the herds­men raise their eyes,
For dazz­ling light the robe of night had torn,
And angels poured their rap­tures from the skies—
The Christ is born.

Bring ye your gifts of gold and in­cense rare,
Wise men who come, all tra­vel-stained and worn;
Find ye the Child, and pay your hom­age there—
The Christ is born.

Hail to the morn, the world ex­ult­ing sings;
Only to Him, in feal­ty we are sworn,
Lord of our lives, im­mor­tal King of kings!—
The Christ is born.