Translations. - A Song Of The Little Child Jesus, For Children At Christmas. Taken Out Of The Second Chapter Of The Gospel Of St. Luke. (Luther's Song-Book.)

From heaven high I come to you,     I bring a story good and new:     Of goodly news so much I bring,     Of it I must both speak and sing.     To you a child is come this morn,     A child of chosen maiden born,     A little babe so sweet and mild     Your joy and bliss shall be that child.     'Tis the Lord Christ, our very God.     He will you ease of all your load;     He'll be himself your Saviour sure     And from all sinning make you pure.     He brings you all the news so glad     Which God the Father ready had--     That you shall in his heavenly house     Live now and evermore with us.     Take heed then to the token sure--     The crib, the swaddling clothes so poor:     The infant you shall find laid there     Who all the world doth hold and bear.     Hence let us all be gladsome then,     And with the shepherd-folk go in     To see what God to us hath given     With his dear honoured Son from heaven.     Take note, my heart; see there! look low:     What lies then in the manger so?     Whose is the lovely little child?     It is the darling Jesus-child.     Hail, noble guest in humble guise,     Poor sinners who didst not despise,     And com'st to me in misery!     My thoughts must all be thanks to thee!     Ah Lord! the maker of us all!     How hast thou grown so poor and small     That there thou liest on withered grass,     The supper of the ox and ass!     Were the world wider many fold,     And decked with gems and cloth of gold,     'T were far too mean and narrow all     To be for thee a cradle small!     The silk and velvet that are thine     Are rough hay, linen not too fine;     Thereon thou, king so rich and great,     Liest as if in heavenly state.     And this hath therefore pleased thee,     To make this truth right plain to me,     That all the world's power, honour, wealth     Are nothing to thy heart or health.     Ah, little Christ! my heart's poor shed     Would make thee a soft, little bed:     Rest there as in a lowly shrine,     And make that heart for ever thine,     That so I always gladsome be,     Ready to dance, and sing to thee     The lullaby thou lovest best,     With sweetest hymn for dearest guest.     Glory to God on highest throne     Who gave to us his only Own!     For this the angel troop sings in     A New Year with gladsome din.