In the bleak midwinter, frosty winds made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;


Snow was falling, snow on snow, snow on snow,

In the bleak midwinter, long ago.



Angels and archangels may have gathered there,

Cherubim and seraphim thronged in the air;

But only his mother, in her maiden bliss,

Worshipped the beloved with a holy kiss.



What can I give him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

And if I were a wise girl, I would do my part;

Yet what I can I give him?

I give him my heart.

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