Ye peo­ple, cease from tears,
Your pray­ers are heard above:
And from His throne in Heav’n ap­pears
The God of peace and love.

O’er Beth­l’em’s si­lent plains,
Hark, heav’n­ly voic­es sing,
Announcing in tri­um­phant strains
The birthd­ay of our king.

The faith­ful shep­herds hear,
And haste the Babe to greet:
Let us like them with joy draw near,
And wor­ship at His feet.

But say—oh, strange sur­prise—
What spec­ta­cle is seen:
An in­fant in the man­ger laid,
His par­ents poor and mean?

Say—do we here be­hold
The Son of God most high,
Who doth with­in His hand in­fold
The earth and sea and sky?

Faith pe­ne­trates the veil,
And through the cloud drawn o’er,
Sees Him whom an­gels trem­bling hail,
The God whom they adore.

O Babe, Thy birth des­pised
And low­ly man­ger tell,
To flee from all be­low that’s prized,
And with the meek to dwell.

From sin­ful shame and pride
Guard us, Thou Child di­vine:
Then wilt Thou in our hearts abide,
Thy cra­dle and Thy shrine.