A king might miss the guid­ing star,
A wise man’s foot might stum­ble;
For Beth­le­hem is ve­ry far
From all ex­cept the hum­ble.
’Tis Christ­mas Day! ’Tis Christ­mas Day!
And Chris­tian hearts are hum­ble.

Some pil­grims seek a hal­lowed shrine;
Some sol­diers march to dan­ger;
Some tra­vel­ers seek an inn—its sign
The Ba­by in a man­ger.
When Christ was born on Christ­mas morn,
They laid Him in a man­ger.

There is no pa­lace in that place,
Nor any seat of learn­ing,
No hill­top vi­sion of God’s face,
No al­tar can­dles burn­ing:
O come and see our Christ­mas tree
And Christ­mas can­dles burn­ing.

But he who gets to Beth­le­hem
Shall hear the ox­en low­ing;
And, if he hum­bly kneel with them,
May catch far trum­pets blow­ing;
From far away, on Christ­mas Day,
May hear God’s trum­pets blow­ing.