Shades of si­lent night di­vid­ing,
Bursts the glo­ry from above;
Down the stream of bright­ness glid­ing,
Comes the mes­sen­ger of love;
To the shep­herds low­ly, tell­ing
Of the Christ ex­pect­ed long,
While the sud­den an­them, swell­ing
Fills the flow­ing heav’n with song.

Heav’n will guard their flocks from dan­ger
Scattered o’er the moist green sward,
While the swains to Beth­le­hem’s man­ger,
Hie to greet their new­born Lord.
Awe and love mater­nal blend­ing,
Fill the bless­èd vir­gin’s heart;
While with re­ver­ent ges­ture bend­ing,
Kneel these hum­ble men apart.

Not alone do men un­learn­èd
Bow the ho­ly Child be­fore:
Sages who for truth long yearn­èd
Heav’ns true Sun at length ad­ore.
So our songs pro­claim a sto­ry
Kings of old have longed to know;
Tell of Christ, the Prince of Glo­ry,
Born this night, for high and low.