Ere the blue heav’ns were stretched abroad,
From ev­er­last­ing was the Word:
With God He was; the Word was God,
And must di­vine­ly be ad­ored.

By His own pow­er were all things made;
By Him sup­port­ed all things stand;
He is the whole cre­ation’s head,
And an­gels fly at His com­mand.

Ere sin was born, or Sa­tan fell,
He led the host of morn­ing stars:
Thy ge­ne­ra­tion who can tell,
Or count the num­bers of Thy years?

But lo, He leaves those heav’n­ly forms,
The Word des­cends and dwells in clay,
That He may hold con­verse with worms,
Dressed in such fee­ble flesh as they.

Mortals with joy be­held His face,
Th’eter­nal Fa­ther’s on­ly Son;
How full of truth! how full of grace!
When thro’ His eyes the God­head shone.

Archangels leave their high abode
To learn new mys­te­ries here, and tell
The loves of our des­cend­ing God,
The glories of Im­ma­nu­el.