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,
Nowells 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,
Chist the Babe was born for you!
Tr. Edith M. Reed -- Polish Carol
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