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.
