Hark the Herald Angels sang,
Glory to those of yesterday.
Glory to those who sit by the hearth,
Nursing their babies in the dark.
Hark to those who don't ask why,
Time is slowly passing by.

The days escape us,
The sun rises in the morn,
Glory to those of yesterday.
Warmth escapes saints who share,
Yet heavens hearth is always clearly there.

Hark the Herald Angels sang,
As food is pushed along the plate.
No morsel not put in the child's grasp,
No crumb left for the scampering rat.

Hark the Herald Angels sang,
As terrors in the night go away.
As sweaty hands clench and unclench,
The mother knows what words to say,

Hark the Herald Angels sang,
As blood pools down into the grave,
For those whose bodies will decay.
The Angels bless those who know their way.

The little girl, once lost and scared,
Sees what is clearly there.
The sacrifices given hence,
Are hers to give without repent.
A mothers work is never done,
But is as glorified as the rising sun.