The shep­herds went their has­ty way,
And found the low­ly sta­ble shed
Where the vir­gin mo­ther lay:
Now they checked their ea­ger tread,
For to the Babe that to her clung,
A mo­ther’s song the vir­gin sung.

They told her how a glo­ri­ous light,
Far stream­ing from a hea­ven­ly throng.
Round them shone, sus­pend­ing night!
While more sweet than mo­ther’s song,
Blest an­gels hailed the Sav­ior’s birth;
Glory to God, and peace on earth.

She list­ened to the tale di­vine,
And clos­er still the Babe she pressed;
While she cried, The Babe is mine!
Mother love o’er­flowed her breast:
Joy rose with­in her, like sum­mer’s morn;
Peace, peace on earth; its Prince is born.

Then, cried she, is my soul elate,
That strife should van­ish, bat­tle cease;
Poor am I, of low es­tate,
Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me like sum­mer’s morn;
Peace, peace on earth; its Prince is born.