Good King Wenceslas looked out,
On the Feast of Stephen;
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even.

Art thou weary, art thou languid, Art thou sore distressed?

Jerusalem the golden,
With milk and honey blest,
Beneath thy contemplation
Sink heart and voice opprest.

In his master's steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted.

Christian! dost thou see them
On the holy ground,
How the troops of Midian
Prowl and prowl around?
Christian! up and smite them.
Counting gain but loss;
Smite them by the merit
Of the Holy Cross!