Praise ye the Lord, ye Chris­tians!
Yea, praise th’Eter­nal One,
Who op­ens Heav’n to us this day,
And gives us His own Son.

He comes from His loved Fa­ther’s side,
Becomes an in­fant small,
And lies with scarce a want sup­plied,
Weak in a hum­ble stall.

His pow­er di­vine aside is laid,
No crown ad­orns His brow;
The migh­ty God who all things made
Comes as a ser­vant now.

He nes­tles at His mo­ther’s breast,
Her pre­cious nurs­ling boy,
Whom saints and an­gels call the Blest,
And who is all their joy.

He is the Root of Da­vid’s line.
King Da­vid’s Lord and Son,
Through whom and by whose grace di­vine
The king­dom must be won.

A won­der­ful ex­change He makes,
He puts on flesh and blood,
Then gives us back in what He takes,
His God­head as our good.

He serves, that I a lord may be.
And gives His life for mine;
How could His love do more for me?
O mys­te­ry di­vine!

Today He op­ens us the door
Of bliss­ful pa­ra­dise,
The che­rub threat­ens there no more;
Then let His prais­es rise!