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So lyis hee quhilk zow hes wrocht, And all this warld made of nocht.
Let vs rejoyce and bee blyth, And with the hyrdes goe full swyth, And see quhat God of his grace hes don Throw Christ to bring vs to his throne.
My saull and lyfe, stand vp and see Quha lyes in ane cribe of tree ; Quhat babe is that so gude and faire ? It is Christ, Gods Sonne and Aire.
Welcum now, gracious God of mycht, To sinners vyle, pure and vnricht; Thou come to saue vs from distresse, How can wee thank thy gentilnesse ?
O God that made all creature, How art thow becum so pure, That on the hay and stray will lye, Amang the asses, oxin and kye ?
And were the warld ten tymes so wide, Cled ouer with gold and stanes of pride, Unworthy zit it were to thee, Under thy feit ane stule to bee. |
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