I

Hail to the King, Who comes in weakness now,

No wreath of gold encircleth His brow,

Lowly His state,—in lowly worship bow;

Hail to the King!

II

Born of His Maiden Mother, pure as snow,

Son of our God, begotten long ago,

Ere yet the stream of time began to flow;

Hail to the King!

III

Nowhere was found a shelter for His head,

Humble He lay, e’en where the oxen fed,

No couch nor crib, a manger was His bed;

Hail to the King!

IV

Herdsmen were there who heard the angels sing;

Wise men from far who myrrh and incense bring,

No other hand bestowed an offering;

Hail to the King!

V

Hail to the King! O Christ upon Thy throne,

Look on the souls which Thou didst make Thine own,

When by Thy Birth and Death Thou did’st atone;

Hail to the King!