Sura Geeyai Bilindu Handai Lyrics by Christmas CarolsLatha WalpolaRookantha Gunathilaka

Angel songs and an infant’s cries are heard far away
A breeze and the scent of flowers come from that direction
Songs that outshine the ringing of silver bells are heard
Who is it singing these tender hymns this night…

May peace come to people of good will and let it win the day
May peace come to all beings of the world and let it win the day
This is how the angels sang their blessed songs
The infant God was born into the world, in a poor hut…

The shepherds take up their flutes and play to the rhythm
Carrying their lambs on their shoulders, they come that way
“Where is the child the host of angels told us of?” they ask
The moment they see the infant, they fall down, bow, and pray…

A lullaby is now heard from that direction
The child nestles into his mother’s lap and sleeps in comfort
He leans his weight into his father’s arms and stands behind
Here is where the divine child, the king of the world, was born…

This is a Sinhala Christmas carol that tells the story of the night Jesus was born. Rather than speaking in one person’s voice, it sets a scene and walks you through it the way the old Nativity story does: a quiet night, faraway singing, and a poor stable where a child who is also God comes into the world.

It opens with sound carried on the wind. From somewhere far off you hear the songs of angels and the cries of a newborn, and along with them a breeze and the smell of flowers drift in from that same direction. The song says these voices outshine even the ringing of silver bells, the sweetest sound a listener could picture, and it asks who could be singing such tender hymns so late at night. The answer comes in the next verse: it is the angels, singing “peace to people of good will, peace to all beings of the world.” That line is the carol’s heart, the old Christmas blessing of peace on earth, and the Sinhala widens it to “sawu sata,” every living being, which is a very Sri Lankan, almost Buddhist way of wishing peace on all life, not just people.

Then the picture fills in with the shepherds. They lift their flutes and play along to the music, and they come carrying their lambs on their shoulders, asking where to find the child the angels spoke of. When they finally see him, they drop to the ground, bow, and pray. The detail of the infant God being born “dilindu pale,” in a poor man’s hut, matters here: the song keeps returning to how humble the place is, the king of the world arriving not in a palace but among shepherds and animals.

The last verse softens into a lullaby. Now you hear a cradle song from that same direction, and the child has settled into his mother’s lap, asleep and at peace, leaning his small weight into his father’s arms. It ends simply, almost in wonder: this is the very spot where the divine child, the one who rules the world, was born. What stays with you is that gentleness, the grandest birth in the story told as quietly as a parent rocking a baby to sleep.