Classic Poem

Att th' teeming of this blessed wombe
All Nature is one joy become;
The Fire, the Earth, the Sea, and Ayre,
The great Salvation doe declare;
The Mountaines skipp with joyes excesse,
The ocean's briny billowes swell
O're the surface of their lands,
And at this blessed Miracle
Floods doe clap their liquid hands,
Joyes inundation to expresse;
Babes spring in the narrow roomes
Of their tender Mothers' wombes,
And all for triumph of the morne
Wherin this Child of bliss is born.
Cho: Rise Happy Mortalls then and sing
Hosanna's to the Heavenly King.