Infant holy, Infant lowly, for his bed a cattle stall; oxen lowing, little knowing, Christ the Babe is Lord of all. Swift are winging angels singing, noels ringing, tidings bringing: Christ the Babe is Lord of all.
Flocks were sleeping, shepherds keeping vigil till the morning new saw the glory, heard the story, tidings of a Gospel true. Thus rejoicing, free from sorrow, praises voicing, greet the morrow: Christ the Babe was born for you.
No comments:
Post a Comment