The earth has grown old with its bur­den of care,
But at Christ­mas it al­ways is young;
And the soul of its mu­sic breaks forth on the air;
When the song of the an­gels is sung.
It is com­ing, old earth, it is com­ing tonight,
On the snow­flakes which cov­er thy sod,
And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with de­light,
That we all can be child­ren of God.

On the sad and the lone­ly, the wretch­ed and poor,
That voice of the Christ Child shall fall;
And to ev­ery blind wan­der­er op­ens the door,
With a sun­shine and wel­come for all.
The feet of the hum­blest may walk in the field,
Where the feet of the Hol­ie­st have trod,
And this is the mar­vel to mor­tals re­vealed,
That we all can be child­ren of God.