Cold was the night in winter wild,
When in her arms the maiden mild,
Enfolds her first, the Heaven born Child;
And whilst the mother over Him hung,
This carol from the angels’ tongue,
In strange mysterious tones is sung:
Gloria in excelsis Deo;
Et in terra pax hominibus;
Bonæ bonæ voluntatis.
The stars sit still in deep amaze,
In solemn silence steadfast gaze,
While listening to th’angelic lays;
Then wafted high, in joyous time,
The songs in loud harmonious chime,
To Heaven’s bright empyrean climb.
And doth this stall, in shaded gloom,
Contain the fruit of Mary’s womb,
For whom the world could not make room?
O grace, all praise of men above,
O Son, beyond all depth of love,
How do these our all passions move!
On thro’ the brightest day of days,
We, with its choir, our voices raise,
Sing jubilee in thankful praise;
To God on high be glory meet,
To earthborn Son—to Paraclete—
In this goodwill, in music sweet.