Two thou­sand trou­bled years
Time’s wea­ry brow have worn,
Since that strange star to shep­herds told
The Prince of Peace was born.

Two thou­sand years of gloom,
Of grop­ing to­ward the light,
Of pro­phets scorned and mar­tyrs slain,
And bat­tle done for right.

But year by year the bells
The old glad tid­ings bring,
And men for­get their strife, to keep
The birth­day of the King.

Christ’s king­dom yet will come,
And good pre­vail o’er ill,
Though oft­en with a crown of thorns
We mock the Mas­ter still.

But He will not for­sake
The world for which He died,
Till all man­kind be ga­thered home
At the great Christ­mas­tide.