On Ju­dah’s hills a low­ly band
Their flocks in safe­ty kept:
Their folds they penned with care­ful hand,
And watched while oth­ers slept.

No help­less sheep was seen to stray,
No ra­ven­ing wolf was nigh;
Their flee­cy charge se­cure­ly lay
Beneath the span­gled sky.

And were not these a faith­ful few
Of Ab­raham’s stock in­deed,
Who longed, with faith­ful hearts and true,
For Da­vid’s pro­mised seed?

Their thoughts, per­chance, were fixed on One
Whom pro­phets had fore­told;
Him, who should bring each wan­der­ing son
Within the Shep­herd’s fold;

The Lord, who loves His flock to feed,
To guard from strange alarms,
In ten­der grass His lambs to lead,
Or bear them in His arms:

Who calls His sheep, that know His voice,
To seek with one ac­cord
The liv­ing wa­ters that re­joice
The ci­ty of the Lord.

O hap­py shep­herds! blest were they,
When from the Fa­ther’s throne
Angelic hosts in bright ar­ray
Brought news of mer­cy down.

Thus first to men of hum­ble birth
Were told the won­drous things,
Which bowed the id­ols of the earth,
And checked the pride of kings.

In daily duty’s con­stant round,
And works of trust and care,
Thus, like the shep­herds, faith­ful found,
May we their bless­ing share.