Hail Pro­geny di­vine!
Hail vir­gin’s won­drous Son!
Who, for that hum­ble shrine,
Didst quit th’Almigh­ty’s throne;
The in­fant Lord our voic­es sing,
And be the King of grace adored.

Ye princ­es, dis­ap­pear,
And boast your crowns no more;
Lay down your scep­ters here,
And in the dust adore:
Where Je­sus dwells, the man­ger bare
In lus­ter far your pomp ex­cels.

With Beth­lem’s shep­herds mild
The an­gels bow their head;
And round the sac­red Child
Their guard­ian wings they spread;
They knew, that where their so­ve­reign lies
In low dis­guise Heav’n’s court is there.

Thither, my soul, re­pair,
And ear­ly hom­age pay
To Thy Re­deem­er fair
As on His na­tal day.
I kiss Thy feet and, Lord, would be
A child like Thee, whom thus I greet.