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.