When Jor­dan hushed his wa­ters still,
And si­lence slept on Zi­on’s hill;
When Sa­lem’s shep­herds through the night
Watched o’er their flocks by star­ry light;

Hark! from the mid­night hills around,
A voice, of more than mor­tal sound,
In dist­ant hal­le­lu­jahs stole,
Wild mur­mur­ing o’er the rap­tured soul.

Then swift to ev­ery star­tled eye,
New streams of glo­ry gild the sky;
Heaven bursts her az­ure gates, to pour
Her spir­its to the mid­night hour.

On wheels of light, on wings of flame,
The glo­ri­ous hosts to Zi­on came;
High Hea­ven with songs of tri­umph rung,
While thus they smote their harps and sung:

O Zi­on! lift thy rap­tured eye,
The long ex­pect­ed hour is nigh;
The joy of na­ture rise again,
The Prince of Sa­lem comes to reign!

See Mer­cy, from her gold­en urn,
Pours a rich stream to those that mourn;
Behold, she binds with ten­der care,
The bleed­ing bosom of des­pair.

He comes to cheer the trem­bling heart,
Bids Sa­tan and his host de­part;
Again the day-star gilds the gloom,
Again the bow­ers of Ed­en bloom!