A me­te­or bright its won­drous light
O’er Beth­lem’s ci­ty shed,
To lead the way where Je­sus lay,
Upon His lone­ly bed.
No no­bles wait, no pomp or state
Surrounds the Babe di­vine,
But o’er His head bright cir­cles spread,
In gold­en glo­ries shine.

The wise men came to bless His name
And own the Sav­ior King,
And shep­herd swains from far off plains
Their hearts’ glad in­cense bring.
So low­ly born, He was the scorn
Of na­tions, kings and priests;
No bel­fry chime that Christ­mas­time
Rang at their lord­ly feasts.

But hea­ven­ly choirs at­tuned their lyres
To hail a prince’s birth,
And rap­tur­ous song from an­gel throng
Greeted the ear of earth.
The star is gone—the song flows on
To her­ald bright­er days;
And truth’s pure beams in glow­ing streams
Make clear life’s dark­ened ways.