But it's a star, a holy night.
It's not a box all wrapped in red.
But it's a box where sheep are fed.
It's not a ring, a suit, or toy.
It's God come down, this baby boy.
He saw a tree all stained with red.
His blood a star of mercy shed.
He saw a box. It was the grave.
From there He rose, God's sons to save.
He brings His ring, His robe, His joy
Come celebrate this baby boy . . .