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It came upon the midnight clear, |
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That glorious song of old, |
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From angels bending near the earth, |
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To touch their harps of gold: |
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"Peace on the earth, goodwill to men |
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From heavens all gracious King!" |
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The world in solemn stillness lay |
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To hear the angels sing. |
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Still through the cloven skies they come, |
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With peaceful wings unfurled; |
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And still their heavenly music floats |
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O'er all the weary world: |
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Above its sad and lowly plains |
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They bend on hovering wing, |
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And ever o'er its Babel sounds |
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The blessed angels sing. |
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O ye beneath life's crushing load, |
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Whose forms are bending low, |
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Who toil along the climbing way |
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With painful steps and slow; |
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Look now, for glad and golden hours |
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Come swiftly on the wing; |
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Oh rest beside the weary road |
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And hear the angels sing. |
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