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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.
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. |
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