ON CHRISTMAS DAY: HYMN by CHARLES COTTON

I

RISE, happy mortals, from your sleep,
Bright Phosphor now begins to peep,
In such apparel as ne'er dress'd
The proudest day-break of the East:
Death's sable curtain 'gins disperse,
And now the blessed morn appears,
Which has long'd and pray'd for Him
So many centuries of years,
To defray th' arrears of sin.
Now through the joyful universe
Beams of mercy and of love
Shoot forth comfort from above,
And choirs of Angels do proclaim
The Holy Jesus blessed Name.

II

Rise Shepherds, leave you flocks, and run,
The soul's great Shepherd now is come;
Oh! wing your tardy feet, and fly
To greet this dawning Majesty:
Heaven's Messenger, in tidings bless'd,
Invites you to the sacred place,
Where the blessed Babe of joy,
Wrapp'd in his Holy Father's Grace,
Come's the serpent to destroy,
That lurks in ev'ry human breast.
To Judah's Beth'lem turn your feet,
There you shall Salvation meet;
There, in a homely manger hurl'd,
Lies the Messias of the world.

III

Riding upon the morning's wings,
The joyful air Salvation sings,
Peace upon earth, tow'rds men good will,
Echoes from ev'ry vale and hill;
For why the Prince of Peace is come,
The glorious Infant, who this morn
(By a strange mysterious birth)
Is of his Virgin Mother born,
To redeem the seed of earth
From foul rebellion's heavy doom.
Travel Magi of the East,
To adore this sacred Guest;
And offer up (with reverence),
Your gold, your myrrh, and frankincense.

IV

At th' teeming of this blessed womb
All nature is one joy become;
The fire, the earth, the sea, and air,
The great Salvation do declare;
The mountains skip with joy's excess,
The ocean's briny billows swell
O'er the surface of their lands,
And at this sacred miracle
Clouds do clap their liquid hands,
Joy's inundation to express;
Babes spring in the narrow rooms
Of their tender mothers' wombs,
And all for triumph of the morn
Wherein the Child of bliss was born.

V

Let each religious soul then rise
To offer up a sacrifice,
And on the wings of pray'r and praise
His grateful heart to Heaven raise;
For this, that in a stable lies,
This poor neglected Babe is He,
Hell and Death that must control,
And speak the blessed Word, be free
To ev'ry true believing soul:
Death has no sting, nor Hell no prize
Through His merits great, whilst we
Travel to Eternity,
And with the blessed Angels sing
Hosannahs to the Heav'nly King.

@3Chorus@1

Rise then, O rise, and let your voices
Tell the spheres the soul rejoices.
In Beth'lem this auspicious morn,
The glorious Son of God is born.
The Child of Glory, Prince of Peace,
Brings mercy that will never cease,
Merits that wipe away the sin
Each human soul was forfeit in;
And washing off the fatal stain,
Man to his Maker knits again:
Join then your grateful notes, and sing
Hosannahs to the Heav'nly King.

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