The Babe of Bethlehem (Dyer)

All hail the peer­less night

Lit by un­won­ted light

When Beth­l’hem’s star o’er

Bethl’hem’s man­ger hung!

While

on Ju­dea’s plains

The wake­ful shep­herd swains

Saw an­gel forms

and heard

The song they sung.

Glory to God on high—

The God who rules the sky—

Goodwill to men

and

Holy peace on earth;

I seem to hear them sing;

They make the heav­ens ring

With songs of joy at our

Redeemer’s birth.

Born of a Jew­ish maid

In Beth­l’hem’s man­ger laid

His head lies pil­lowed

On a vir­gin’s breast.

And did He stoop so low?

Did He the throne fore­go

To raise us sin­ners to

The heav’n­ly rest?

Yes

Christ was born to bleed

Such was our dread­ful need

That thro’ His death our

Sins might be for­giv’n;

Yet reigns He now on high

And soon shall ev­ery eye

Behold His ad­vent in

The clouds of Heav’n.