Fly abroad, and tell the sto­ry,
Of the migh­ty Sav­ior’s birth;
Say ye, that the Lord of glo­ry
Leaves His throne and comes to earth.
He, be­fore whom an­gels bow,
Takes the form of man be­low.

Hither come, and view the Stran­ger,
View the In­fant late­ly born;
See, He lives in yon­der man­ger,
By the world cast out in scorn.
Mark Him well, for this is He,
Born to set His people free.

Wonder not that thus ye see Him,
Lying in this hum­ble place:
Nor in­dulge a wish to free Him,
From a state so low and base.
Worldly pomp the Sav­ior scorns:
Him no out­ward state adorns.

Sing, ye saints, the Sav­ior’s prais­es:
’Twas for you He suf­fered shame;
Yes, He stooped that He might raise us
To the place from whence He came.
Though He now ap­pears so low,
Crowns shall soon adorn His brow.

Learn from His ob­scure con­di­tion
How to think of all be­low;
Scorn He meets, and op­po­si­tion:
Jesus finds in man His foe.
Such our mas­ter was, and we
Must ex­pect like Him to be.