Let my­ri­ad chords this day be strung
Within the beat­ing hearts of men,
Till peal on peal from ev­ery tongue,
Again re-echo­ing and again,
Shall far and near the news pro­claim,
That Christ is born in Beth­le­hem.

No pomp of pow­er, no pride of place,
No gorg­eous ban­ner was un­furled,
When He, the Lord of life and grace,
Descended on a hard­ened world;
And Sa­tan stood with fold­ed wings,
And, cow­er­ing, owned Him King of kings.

The heath­en gods were si­lent then,
No voice was heard from wood or stone,
Their glo­ry had de­part­ed—when
The Lord of Glo­ry left His throne,
And in a low­ly man­ger lay,
The Day-star of eter­nal day.

Dark su­per­sti­tion, scowl­ing, fled;
A blight up­on her par­ent stem
Had fall­en, when in won­der led
The star stood ov­er Beth­le­hem,
And ho­ly an­gels, ho­ver­ing there,
Sang prais­es in the mid­night air.

Yes! an­gels sang their song of old,
Yet man, for whom He came, was dumb;
They ate, they drank, they bought, they sold,
And knew not that their Lord was come,
For them to live, for them to die,
A pledge to them of vic­to­ry.

Long years have rolled since that bright day,
And through the world His love has rung,
But be not we as blind as they,
Or leave His prais­es all un­sung:
The heav’ns pro­claim that Christ is come,
Shall we on earth alone be dumb?

No! let each and ev­ery heart
Awake, and sing this joy­ous morn,
And with the an­gels bear­ing part,
Proclaim their great Re­deem­er born,
And strive a guilt­less life to bring
As trib­ute to their heav’n­ly king.