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.