Bound by the fetters of time, in some distant, ancient land,

Wise men three saw a starry sign and set out aross the endless sand.

Holding in their hearts songs of praise to sing, they travelled through the day and through the night,

With precious gifts of Myrhh to bring, ever toward that guiding heavenly light.

With weary awe-struck eyes they traced a newborn star, ever towards the mounting west,

Across the Galilean mountains wide and far, but when that star came in the sky to rest,

They scarce could believe their eyes, they had come so many tearful miles,

And this miracle they had always prized was nothing but an infant child!

Nothing but that child in swaddling-clothes could wash the wailing of the world away,

Or guide a warlike globe into the light of the dawning day,

And nothing but a child, born of woman and wrought of man, could help erase those tired miles,

So once again all the world might be wise children for awhile.

Now, from Timbuktu to Paris to Bejing, in every little mud-wall hut, in every ghetto stack and dainty country town,

Everyday again is heard that precious long-awaited sound

And every mother, ever-kind, and every father, all too proud,

Looks down in awe and wonder to find a second chance, by God allowed.