The cold harsh wind,

Blowing outside,

Nearly drowning out

The child’s cry.

Two parents huddled

Beside a small bed,

Praying,

Please let our child

Not be dead.

Poor wee little child,

Barely a year old,

Slowly dying,

From bitter cold.

Oh cruel world!

Spare him today

On bended knees,

His parents prayed.

God if you must take him,

Then bless his soul.

Take him to Heaven’s,

Grace of gold,

But if it is your will,

To let him live,

Then grant us warmth,

So that we can give

And on that night

Guided by star,

Three kindly men,

Arrived from afar.

Baring gifts,

They traveled far to bring,

For it was God’s will,

That this child be king.