οἱ ποιμένες τὸ θαῦμα κηρύττουσιν.
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;