From starry skies descending, Thou comest, glorious King, A manger low Thy
bed, in winter's icy sting;
O my dearest Child most holy, Shudd'ring, trembling in the cold! Great
God, Thou lovest me! What suff'ring Thou didst bear, that I near Thee might
be!
Thou art the world's Creator, God's own and true Word, Yet here no robe,
no fire for Thee, Divine Lord. Dearest, fairest, sweetest Infant, Dire this
state of poverty. The more I care for Thee, Since Thou, o Love Divine,
will'st now so poor to be.
