The hap­py Christ­mas comes once more,
The heav’n­ly Guest is at the door,
The bless­èd words the shep­herds thrill,
The joyous tid­ings, Peace, good will.

This world, though wide and far out­spread,
Could scarce­ly find for You a bed.
Your cradle was a man­ger stall,
No pearl nor silk nor king­ly hall.

O let us go with qui­et mind,
The gen­tle Babe with shep­herds find,
To gaze on Him who glad­dens them,
The love­li­est flow­er of Jes­se’s stem.

The low­ly Sav­ior meek­ly lies,
Laid off the splen­dor of the skies;
No crown be­decks His fore­head fair,
No pearl, nor gem, nor silk is there.

O wake, our hearts, in glad­ness sing,
And keep our Christ­mas with our king,
Till liv­ing song, from lov­ing souls,
Like sound of migh­ty wa­ter rolls.

O ho­ly Child, Thy man­ger gleams
Till earth and hea­ven glow with its beams,
Till midn­ight noon’s broad light hath won,
And Ja­cob’s star out­shines the sun.

Thou pa­tri­archs’ joy, Thou pro­phets’ song,
Thou hea­venly Day­spring, looked for long,
Thou Son of Man, in­car­nate Word,
Great Da­vid’s Son, great Da­vid’s Lord.

Come, Je­sus, glo­ri­ous heav’n­ly Guest,
Keep Thine own Christ­mas in our breast,
Then Da­vid’s harp strings, hushed so long,
Shall swell our ju­bi­lee of song.