Now gird your patient loins again,

Your wasting torches trim!

The chief of all the sons of men,

Shall we not welcome him?

Fill all his courts with sacred songs,

And from the temple wall

Wave garlands o’er the joyful throngs

That crowd his festival!

And still more freshly in the mind

Store up the hopes sublime

Which then were born for all mankind,

So blessed was the time;

And, underneath these hallowed eaves,

A Saviour will be born

In every heart that him receives,

On his triumphal morn.