Twas in the moon of winter-time. When all the birds had fled. That mighty Gitchi Manitou. Sent angel choirs instead. Before their light the stars grew dim. And wandering hunters heard the hymn. "Jesus your King is born Jesus is born. In excelsis gloria. ". Within a lodge of broken bark. The tender Babe was found. A ragged robe of rabbit skin. Enwrapp'd His beauty round. But as the hunter braves drew nigh. The angel song rang loud and high. "Jesus your King is born Jesus is born. In excelsis gloria. ". The earliest moon of wintertime. Is not so round and fair. As was the ring of glory. On the helpless infant there. The chiefs from far before him knelt. With gifts of fox and beaver pelt. Jesus your King is born Jesus is born. In excelsis gloria. O children of the forest free. O sons of Manitou. The Holy Child of earth and heaven. Is born today for you. Come kneel before the radiant Boy. Who brings you beauty peace and joy. "Jesus your King is born Jesus is born. In excelsis gloria. "