1 We celebrate the praise to day,
Of Godhead manifest in clay,
And of a woman born!
The promis'd Son to us is giv'n,
The glories of indulgent heav'n,
Our nature doth adorn.

2 Let it be told to distant lands,
How softly wrapp'd in swaddling bands,
And in a manger laid,
Was he, whom we with joy confess,
The glorious Lord, our righteousness!
Born of a favour'd maid.

3 Long did the saints with ardour sigh
To see his day, and thus did cry,
Desire of nations come:
More blest are we who see and prove,
The fulness of the Father's love,
The state of man, assume.

4 The Lord himself hath giv'n the sign
Of richest grace, and love divine,
Promise'd of old to man;
How that a virgin should conceive:
The wond'rous tidings we believe,
And praise her first born son.