The little King of Christmas
Lies on a bed of hay,
With a robe of swaddling clothes
And vessels made of clay.
His palace is of wood,
The floor of earthen sod,
A carpet made of straw -
The dwelling place of God.
Poor shepherds are his court
And oxen on him wait;
For light he has a star,
A barn for an estate.
The wind blows through the slats,
He shivers in the cold;
Rest now, my little King,
You're safe here in the fold.
This is my King for aye,
With him my lot I cast -
The little King of Christmas,
Until my life be past.
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