O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapped in night’s mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul, so brutish, is thy right,
To man of all beasts be not thou a stranger:
Furnish and deck my soul, that thou mayst have
A better lodging than a rack or grave.
“Glory to God.”
The shepherds sing; and shall we silent be?
My God, no hymn for Thee?
We must, in thanks for Thy most precious gift,
In praise to you our voices lift;
To Thee Who sent to us Thine only son,
With shepherds now we sing as one.
“Glory to God,” the shepherds sing,
And in the sky the angel voices ring.
“Glory to God, in Heav’n above!”
The Father sends His only Son in love.
The shepherds sing, nor shall we silent be!
Our God, this hymn for Thee!
We must, in thanks for Thy most precious gift,
In praise to you our voices lift;
To Thee Who sent to us Thine only son,
With shepherds now we sing as one.