O'er Bethlehem the glory rests,
And from that glory bursts the song
Of angels, which the wondering earth
Through all its ages shall prolong.

The Son becomes the servant here,
From this to us all glory springs;
Lower than angels God is made,—
That infant is the King of kings!

The Lamb of sacrifice lies here,
Preparing for the altar-fire;
True Lamb of God, without a spot,—
He of all nations the desire.

O long, long promised, come at last,
In human weakness man to save;
Thy lifetime's work for us to do,
Even from the cradle to the grave.

God, in His lowliness of love,
From highest heaven to earth hath come;
Though rich, for us becoming poor,
Despising not the Virgin's womb.

Despising not the manger-bed,
He takes on earth the lowest place;
To poverty bows down, that we
May taste the fulness of His grace.

O grace of Christ, how full and sweet!
O love of God, how rich and free!
The Father's well-beloved Son
Hath stooped to shame and woe for me!

O stony manger of the inn!
Poor casket thou for such a gem:
On thee we gaze, in thee we find
Heaven's glory, earth's bright diadem.