O how shall I keep my Christ­mas?
My heart whis­pered soft­ly to me,
For I had been read­ing the sto­ry
Of the Lord’s na­ti­vi­ty;
And slow­ly and clear­ly be­fore me
The words like pic­tures rise,
And the scenes ap­pear in the beau­ty
Of the star­ry Sy­ri­an skies.

O cra­dled He was in a man­ger!
For low­ly and poor was He,
Whose throne is the splen­dors of Hea­ven
Whose pow’r is in­fi­ni­ty;
And He bore His cross to save us,
To save us from death and sin,
And He trod all alone the wine­press
To make us pure and clean.

In glo­ry the hosts of the an­gels
Came sing­ing His song of praise,
And fill­ing the heav’ns with their mu­sic
In those won­der­ful old days;
Singing Glory to God in the high­est!
And peace up­on earth,
And the migh­ty chor­us of voic­es
Pealed forth Good will to all.

O how shall I keep my Christ­mas?
As they keep it in Hea­ven above;
O keep it with peace and thanks­giv­ing,
And kind­li­est deed of love;
And share with the poor and needy
The joys which the Lord gives thee;
And thy heart shall keep with the an­gels
The Lord’s na­ti­vi­ty.