He left heaven, pure and bright, The endless chorus day and night, Walked out from all He'd ever known, To make His chosen bride His own. No fanfare marked His entrance here, No palace waiting, loud and clear, Just shepherds, starlight, cattle low, And Mary's arms to hold Him close. The hands that shaped the mountain peaks, Now soft and small on Mary's cheek, The voice that spoke the world to birth, Now cried out on this sin-cursed earth. The King who wore the crown of heaven, Wore swaddling clothes that matchless evening, In hay He lay, who made the trees, The Lord of all in poverty. From Heaven to the manger to the cross, He left it all to save the lost, From death to life, from grave to glory, This is our gracious Savior's story. The hands that shaped the mountain peaks, Now soft and small on Mary's cheek, The voice that spoke the world to birth, Now cried out on this sin-cursed earth.
