O God, to­day we may for­get
How aw­ful and how great art Thou,
The ter­rors that our sins have set
Around Thy throne, about Thy brow;
Thy will, un­search­able to man,
Thy pow­er that hath en­com­passed all—
That whirled the spheres, ere time be­gan,
And marked re­bel­lious an­gels’ fall.

O Je­sus, now we can­not weep;
Thy cross trans­fig­ured seems to rise.
Celestial ar­mies round it keep
Eternal vi­gil in the skies.
We can­not feel Thy suf­fer­ing,
Nor see Thy co­ro­net of thorn;
We on­ly hear the ser­aphs sing
That Christ, the Prince of Peace, is born.

O Ho­ly Ghost, our Fa­ther’s gift,
Suffuse our in­most be­ings, till
Immortal joy our spir­its lift,
And holds them cap­tive to Thy will.
Today Thou dost not come to chide,
Or bring our guilt be­fore Thy face;
But, pure and clean, we may ab­ide
In Thine own sec­ret dwell­ing place.

A lit­tle child to us is giv’n,
A ten­der ha­lo on His head,
His smile hath caught the light of Heav­en,
And hu­man woe is com­fort­ed!
He sleeps in ev­ery strick­en breast,
He gazes in­to wea­ry eyes.
And lo! a bless­èd peace and rest
Steals on our hearts from pa­ra­dise.

Ah, soul of mine, canst thou with­stand
The pre­sence of that Child di­vine,
Or thrust aside the lit­tle hand
He lays so trust­ing­ly in thine?
Oh! join the world’s great hymn of love,
That ne­ver end­ing, rap­tur­ous lay!
While cher­ub­im and saints ab­ove
Adore the Babe of Christ­mas day.