An in­fant lay with­in a shed,
Where ox and ass were tied and fed;
Hard by there stood a maid­en mild;
’Twas Ma­ry, mo­ther to the Child.

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My God, my Lord, Je­sus,
’Twas He was cra­dled thus.

With voic­es sweet in awe to Him
There sung a choir of se­ra­phim,
Praise, wor­ship, glo­ry, loud they cry,
To God whose king­dom fills the sky.

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The shep­herds, when they heard them say,
Anon with glad­ness went their way
To Beth­lem; when they found Him there,
That no­ble Child, full fain they were.

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A bright star at the self-same tide
Was by the three good kings es­pied:
Afar from east­ern land they fare;
A good­ly pre­sent each doth bear.

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Before yon babe, of high de­gree,
They kneel and pray on bend­ed knee,
Presenting gifts with re­ver­ence,
Of gold, and myrrh, and frank­in­cense.

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Then Her­od King, in mood un­mild,
Assayed to slay the roy­al Child;
Fell ma­ny a babe at his com­mand,
But Christ was safe in Egypt-land.

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When thir­ty years were ful­ly past
This In­fant, He was crossed at last,
Was dead, and bur­ied tomb with­in,
That man eter­nal life might win.

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But, on the third day, no­thing else,
He rose again, as Gos­pel tells:
Ascended to His Fa­ther-land,
There sit­teth He at God’s right hand.

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