1 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.

2 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.