Sweet Child di­vine, of low­ly grace,
Thy mo­ther guard is keep­ing;
And an­gels pass with re­ver­ent pace
Where Thou art calm­ly sleep­ing,
Where Thou art calm­ly sleep­ing.
O life di­vine­ly shown!
O love made known for all to own!
Sweet Babe, we haste to bring
All praise and ser­vice ho­ly.

All lowly is Thy man­ger throne,
Yet Thou art tru­ly reign­ing,
Receiving gifts from all Thine own,
A lost world’s love re­gain­ing,
A lost world’s love re­gain­ing.
So high and low shall meet
In un­ion sweet about Thy feet,
Blest Child of heav’n­ly grace,
Thy ten­der­ness ador­ing.

O Son of Mary, Son di­vine!
Oh, rest Thee, let her fold Thee
To that full heart, whose life is Thine,
Ere rud­er hands shall hold Thee,
Ere rud­er hands shall hold Thee.
Swift years are hast­ing by,
A cross stands high, and Thou wilt die:
Love, love, al­way for men,
O Je­su, Son of Ma­ry!

But now we greet Thee, in­fant King,
With of­fer­ings rich and holy;
The trea­sures of our life we bring,
O Son of Ma­ry low­ly.
Glad an­gels ho­ver nigh,
To waft on high their lul­la­by,
To waft on high their lul­la­by.
Sweet Babe of Beth­le­hem,
And Son of God most ho­ly.