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Infant holy, Infant lowly, for his bed a cattle stall;
Oxen lowing, little knowing, Christ the Babe is lord of all.
Swift are winging, angels singing, noels ringing, tidings bringing:
Christ the Babe is Lord of all.
Flocks were sleeping, shepherds keeping vigil ‘til the morning new
Saw the glory, heard the story, tidings of a gospel true.
Thus rejoicing, free from sorrow, praises voicing greet the morrow:
Christ the Babe was born for you.
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