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, tiding bringing:
Christ the Babe is Lord of All.

Flocks were sleeping, shepherds keeping
Vigil til 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.