Jesus the Lord is born,
To set His peo­ple free,
From Si­nai’s dread­ful storm,
And ev­ery mi­se­ry;
From all that hell and sin can do,
And take them safe to glo­ry, too.

Whatever guest ap­peared,
The pub­lic inn to crowd;
No lodg­ings could be spared
For the in­car­nate Word;
A sta­ble must the birth­place be
Of Him who fills im­men­si­ty.

The sin­ner’s guil­ty heart
For sin pro­vides a home;
Nor with a lust will part,
To give the Sav­ior room;
Just like the bust­ling, crowd­ed inn,
There’s room for all, ex­cept­ing Him.

For pass­ion, lust and pride,
And en­mi­ty to God;
For aught that can de­ride
The Sav­ior’s pre­cious blood,
There’s room and en­ter­tain­ment here,
But none for Him whom dev­ils fear.

Immortal thanks to Him,
Whose match­less, so­ver­eign grace
Breaks down the pow­er of sin
And makes Him­self a place;
He takes pos­ses­sion of the mind,
And proves Him­self su­preme­ly kind.