’Tis come, the time so oft fore­told,
The time eter­nal love fore­cast;
Four thou­sand years of hope have rolled,
And God hath sent His Son at last;
Let Hea­ven, let earth, adore the plan;
Glory to God, and grace to man!

To swains that watched their night­ly fold,
Of low­ly lot, of low­ly mind,
To these the tid­ings first were told,
That spoke of hope for lost man­kind;
God gives His Son, no more He can;
Glory to God, and grace to man!

And well to shep­herds first ’tis known,
The Lord of an­gels comes from high,
In hum­blest as­pect like their own,
Good Shep­herd, for His sheep to die:
O height and depth, which who shall span?
Glory to God, and grace to man!

Fain with those meek, those hap­py swains,
Lord, I would hear that an­gel choir;
Till, ra­vished by ce­les­ti­al strains,
My heart re­sponds with ho­ly fire:
That ho­ly fire Thy breath must fan;
Glory to God, and grace to man!