It was in the moon of winter time, When all the birds had fled,
That mighty Gitche man he too Sent angels' chorus 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,
Erich drove off her rabid skin, And wrapped his beauty round.
But as the hunter braved through night, The angels' song rang loud and high,
Jesus, your King, is born, Jesus is born, In excelsis Gloria.
The earliest moon of winter time Is not so round and fair,
As for 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.