Hark from on High Those Blissful Strains!

Hark from on high those bliss­ful strains!

Whence can such sweet­ness be?

Have an­gels waked their gold­en harps

With Heav’n’s own min­strel­sy?

With Heav’n’s own min­strel­sy?

Or do we hear the cher­ub voice

Of in­fant bands who raise

Soaring from earth ce­les­ti­al notes

In their cre­at­or’s praise?

In their cre­at­or’s praise?

Thus spake the shep­herds—yet with dread

So strange the sounds they heard

While o’er their slum­ber­ing flocks they kept

Their wont­ed night­ly guard

Their wont­ed night­ly guard.

And soon they saw a dazz­ling light

Beam through the star­ry way

And shin­ing ser­aphs clus­ter­ing where

The in­fant Je­sus lay

The in­fant Je­sus lay.

They came a Sav­ior’s birth to tell

And tunes of rap­ture sing;

Hence the glad notes that filled the air—

Each swept his loud­est string

Each swept his loud­est string.

But now in ac­cents soft and kind

The chief­tain an­gel said

Heav’ns tid­ings of great joy we bear—

Shepherds

be not afraid

Shepherds

be not afraid.