John Brownlie (trans.) · 31 of 99

31: Come, let us sing with joyful mirth

Come, let us sing with joyful mirth The mystery of Immanuel's birth, Who, virgin born, is here; The middle wall no longer stands, No flaming sword in cherub's hands Inspires the soul with fear.

See, clear the pathway open lies That upward leads to Paradise, Where stands the Tree of Life; And freely may I enter in, Whence I was driven by mortal sin, And worsted in the strife.

For He, the Father's only Son, A glorious work hath now begun, Descending from above In servant's form, though yet the Son, Unchanging while the ages run, To win us by His love.

Come, now, let hearts united be To laud His praises joyfully, The God-Man born to-day. And let Thy mercy reach us now, For pitiful and kind art Thou, O Virgin born, we pray.