Oh, how won­drous is the sto­ry
Of our blest Re­deem­er’s birth!
See, the migh­ty Lord of glo­ry
Leaves His Hea­ven to vis­it earth.

Hear with trans­port, ev­ery crea­ture,
Hear the Gos­pel’s joy­ful sound:
Christ ap­pears in hu­man na­ture,
In our sin­ful world is found.

Comes to par­don our trans­gress­ion;
Like a cloud our sins to blot;
Comes to His own fa­vored na­tion,
But His own re­ceive Him not.

If the an­gels who at­tend­ed
To de­clare the Sav­ior’s birth,
Who from Heav’n with song des­cend­ed
To pro­claim good-will on earth:

If, in pi­ty to our blind­ness,
They had brought the par­don need­ed,
Still Je­ho­vah’s won­drous kind­ness
Had our warm­est hopes ex­ceed­ed.

If some pro­phet had been sent
With sal­va­tion’s joy­ful news,
Who that heard the blest ev­ent
Could their warm­est love re­fuse?

But ’twas He to whom in Hea­ven
Hallelujahs ne­ver cease;
He, the migh­ty God, was giv­en—
Giv’n to us—a Prince of Peace.

None but He who did cre­ate us
Could re­deem from sin and hell;
None but He could re­in­state us
In the rank from which we fell.

Had he come, the glo­ri­ous Stran­ger,
Decked with all the world calls great;
Had He lived in pomp and gran­deur,
Crowned with more than roy­al state,

Still our tongues, with praise o’er­flow­ing,
On such bound­less love would dwell;
Still our hearts, with rap­ture glow­ing,
Feel what words could ne­ver tell.

But what won­der should it raise,
Thus our low­est state to bor­row!
O the high mys­te­ri­ous ways,
God’s own Son a child of sor­row!

’Twas to bring us end­less plea­sure
He our suf­fer­ing na­ture bore;
’Twas to give us heav’n­ly trea­sure
He was will­ing to be poor.

Come, ye rich, sur­vey the sta­ble
Where your in­fant Sav­ior lies;
From your full, o’er­flow­ing ta­ble,
Send the hun­gry good sup­plies.

Boast not your en­no­bled sta­tions;
Boast not that you’re high­ly fed;
Jesus—hear it, all ye na­tions—
Had not where to lay His head.

Learn of Me, thus cries the Sav­ior,
If My king­dom you’d in­her­it;
Sinner, quit your proud be­hav­ior,
Learn My meek and low­ly spir­it.

Come, ye ser­vants, see your sta­tion
Freed from all re­proach and shame:
He who pur­chased your sal­va­tion
Bore a ser­vant’s hum­ble name.

Come, ye poor, some com­fort ga­ther;
Faint not in the race you run;
Hard the lot your gra­cious Fa­ther
Gave His dear, His on­ly Son.

Think that if your hum­bler sta­tions
Less of world­ly good be­stow,
You es­cape those strong temp­ta­tions
Which from wealth and gran­deur flow.

See, your Sav­ior is as­cend­ed:
See, He looks with pi­ty down!
Trust Him, all will soon be mend­ed;
Bear His cross, you’ll share His crown.