In Bethlehem, in Jury, This blessed babe was born, And laid within a manger Upon this blessed morn; The which his mother Mary Did nothing take in scorn. O tidings, &c. From God, our Heavenly Father, A blessed angel came, And unto certain shepherds Brought tidings of the same, That there was born in Bethlehem The Son of God by name. O tidings, &c. Fear not then, said the Angel, Let nothing you affright, This day is born a Saviour Of a pure Virgin bright; So frequently to vanquish all The friends of Satan quite. O tidings, &c. The shepherds at these tidings Rejoiced much in mind, And left their flocks a feeding In tempest, storm, and wind, And went to Bethlehem straightway, This blessed Babe to find. O tidings, &c. But when they came to Bethlehem, Where our dear Saviour lay, They found Him in a manger, Where oxen fed on hay; His mother, Mary, kneeling, Unto the Lord did pray. O tidings, &c. Now to the Lord sing praises All you within this place, And with true love and brotherhood Each other now embrace; This holy tide of Christmas All others doth deface. O tidings, &c. XXV. GOD’S dear Son without beginning, Whom the wicked Jews did scorn; The only wise without all sinning On this blessed day was born. To save us all from sin and thrall, When we in Satan’s chains were bound, And shed his blood to do us good, With many a purple bleeding wound. At Bethlehem, king David’s city, Mary’s Babe had sweet creation, God and Man endu’d with pity, And a Saviour of each nation. Yet Jewry land with cruel hand, Both first and last his power envy’d; Where He was born, they did Him scorn, And shew’d Him malice when He died. No princely palace for our Saviour, In Judea could be found. But blessed Mary’s meek behaviour, Patiently upon the ground, Her babe did place in vile disgrace, Where oxen in their stalls did feed; No midwife mild had this sweet Child, Nor woman’s help at mother’s need. No kingly robes nor golden treasure Deck’d the birth-day of God’s Son; No pompal train at all took pleasure To this King of kings to run. No mantle brave could Jesus have, Upon His cradle for to lye; No musick’s charms in nurse’s arms, To sing the Babe a lullaby.