Hail Progeny divine!
Hail virgin’s wondrous Son!
Who, for that humble shrine,
Didst quit th’Almighty’s throne;
The infant Lord our voices sing,
And be the King of grace adored.
Ye princes, disappear,
And boast your crowns no more;
Lay down your scepters here,
And in the dust adore:
Where Jesus dwells, the manger bare
In luster far your pomp excels.
With Bethlem’s shepherds mild
The angels bow their head;
And round the sacred Child
Their guardian wings they spread;
They knew, that where their sovereign lies
In low disguise Heav’n’s court is there.
Thither, my soul, repair,
And early homage pay
To Thy Redeemer fair
As on His natal day.
I kiss Thy feet and, Lord, would be
A child like Thee, whom thus I greet.