I can­not tell why He whom an­gels wor­ship,
Should set His love up­on the sons of men,
Or why, as shep­herd, He should seek the wan­der­ers,
To bring them back, they know not how or when.
But this I know, that He was born of Ma­ry
When Beth­le­hem’s man­ger was His on­ly home,
And that He lived at Na­za­reth and la­bored,
And so the Sav­ior, Sav­ior of the world is come.

I can­not tell how si­lent­ly He suf­fered,
As with His peace He graced this place of tears,
Or how His heart upon the cross was brok­en,
The crown of pain to three and thir­ty years.
But this I know, He heals the brok­en­heart­ed,
And stays our sin, and calms our lurk­ing fear,
And lifts the bur­den from the hea­vy la­den,
For yet the Sav­ior, Sav­ior of the world is here.

I can­not tell how He will win the na­tions,
How He will claim His earth­ly he­ri­tage,
How sa­tis­fy the needs and as­pi­ra­tions
Of East and West, of sin­ner and of sage.
But this I know, all flesh shall see His glo­ry,
And He shall reap the har­vest He has sown,
And some glad day His sun shall shine in splen­dor
When He the Sav­ior, Sav­ior of the world is known.

I can­not tell how all the lands shall wor­ship,
When, at His bid­ding, ev­ery storm is stilled,
Or who can say how great the ju­bi­la­tion
When all the hearts of men with love are filled.
But this I know, the skies will thrill with rap­ture,
And my­ri­ad, my­ri­ad hu­man voic­es sing,
And earth to Hea­ven,
And Hea­ven to earth, will an­swer:
At last the Sav­ior, Sav­ior of the world is king!