They seek the Babe—no re­gal state—
No prince­ly pomp are His the while;
On Him no bright-robed cour­ti­ers wait,
But hum­ble pea­sants watch His smile:
The ma­gi kneel, and shep­herds bend,
To Him who an­gels did at­tend.

He has re­signed a crown of light—
Laid all His glo­ri­ous vest­ments by—
And shroud­ing in this world of night
The splen­dors of the De­ity,
Hath come to suc­cor, save, and bless,
His crea­tures in their wretch­ed­ness.

Savior, again we hail the day,
When bright­ly rose Thy na­tal star;
And join the an­gels’ Hea­ven-taught lay,
Which in the az­ure fields afar—
The mu­sic of ce­les­ti­al spheres,
Rang on the shep­herds’ list­en­ing ears.

And lo, from na­ture’s hand we bear
An of­fer­ing for Thy ho­ly shrine;
With ev­er­green, and gar­lands fair,
High arch and lof­ty pil­lar twine:
And joy­ful­ly our pæ­ans raise,
Redeemer, Sav­ior, in Thy praise.

And though no bright, pe­cul­iar gem
Is hung up­on our midn­ight sky—
Like that which shone o’er Beth­le­hem,
What time the hea­ven­ly hosts were nigh—
Thy Word our po­lar star shall be,
Guiding us on, to Hea­ven and Thee.