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It starts with a hush. Not the dramatic silence of cathedrals, but the softer one that falls over Berlin in December—between the snow-heavy air and the flicker of candlelight. And then, somewhere, someone begins to sing.
“Leise rieselt der Schnee, still und starr ruht der See…”
You might not understand the words at first, but you’ll feel their calm. Germans know how to wait for Christmas, to stretch the anticipation into a ritual. The season doesn’t arrive all at once—it unfolds, song by song, week by week, from the first Advent candle to the stillness of Heiligabend.
For expats, these Weihnachtslieder—German Christmas Carols—are the emotional roadmap of the season. They’re not background music; they’re structure, memory, and belonging in melody form.
The first notes of Leise rieselt der Schnee usually appear before the first Advent Sunday, carried by children’s voices from school corridors or street choirs in Prenzlauer Berg. Written by Pastor Eduard Ebel in 1895, it isn’t a hymn of grandeur but of quiet awe.
Leise rieselt der Schnee,
Still und starr ruht der See,
Weihnachtlich glänzet der Wald:
Freue dich, Christkind kommt bald.
Softly falls the snow,
Silent and still rests the lake,
Christmassy shines in the forest—
Rejoice, the Christ Child comes soon.
This is meditation. In a culture that celebrates Vorfreude, the joy of anticipation, this song sets the tone: winter as a prelude, the world holding its breath. Expats who come from countries where Christmas erupts overnight often find this gradual build strangely comforting.
Berlin, after all, loves slow rituals. Lighting the first candle on the Adventskranz, opening the first door of the Adventskalender, buying that first paper cup of Glühwein at Gendarmenmarkt—it’s all syncopated to the same quiet rhythm.
See also Christmas in Berlin 2025 for a full breakdown of Advent rituals and market openings.
Every German child learns O Tannenbaum before they can spell their own name. It’s sung to the tree itself—because here, the tree is not a decoration, it’s a symbol.
The song’s 19th-century lyrics by Ernst Anschütz turn the evergreen into a metaphor for faithfulness and endurance through the cold.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Wie treu sind deine Blätter!
Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,
Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.
O fir tree, O fir tree,
How loyal are your needles!
You’re green not only in summer’s light,
But also in winter, when it snows.
It’s not only about gifts or Santa or even the manger—it’s about resilience. Berliners hum it as they carry their trees home through the S-Bahn tunnels, pine needles dropping like confetti on the platforms. By Heiligabend, when candles flicker between branches, the melody is everywhere: domestic, tender, unpretentious.
Just as the expat begins to feel fluent in Advent, Germany throws in Nikolausabend. On the night of December 5th, children leave polished shoes by their door for Sankt Nikolaus—the original gift-bringer.
The soundtrack to this tradition is Lasst uns froh und munter sein—a cheerful, repetitive tune sung in school and at home before bedtime, as little boots line up in expectation.
Lasst uns froh und munter sein
Und uns recht von Herzen freun!
Lustig, lustig, traleralera,
Bald ist Nikolausabend da!
Let us be happy and cheerful,
And rejoice with all our hearts!
Merry, merry, tralala-lala,
Soon Saint Nicholas Eve will be here!
The joy in it isn’t formal or stiff. It’s giddy, childlike, and it captures what expats in Berlin often miss—the sheer innocence of German Christmas. The idea that morality and music still belong in the same tradition.
Families might dress a parent as Nikolaus, sometimes accompanied by Knecht Ruprecht—a shadowy figure who asks children if they’ve behaved. The little ones respond by singing. In Germany, music redeems.
As Advent deepens, the tone changes. The playful jingles fade into devotional songs. The Christ Child—the Christkind, not Santa—returns to the narrative.
The most beloved is Alle Jahre wieder, written in 1837 by Johann Wilhelm Hey. Simple, repetitive, soothing, it’s sung in every school concert and nursing home across Germany.
Alle Jahre wieder
Kommt das Christuskind,
Auf die Erde nieder,
Wo wir Menschen sind.
Every year again,
The Christ Child comes down to earth,
Where we humans dwell.
For expats far from home, it hits like a lullaby. Its theology is modest; its comfort, immense. Every year again—the same streets, the same cold, the same chance at warmth.
Then there’s “Ihr Kinderlein, kommet”—“Oh, come, little children”—written by a Catholic priest in 1811 but beloved by all. It’s sung as families gather around the Weihnachtskrippe (nativity scene).
Ihr Kinderlein, kommet, o kommet doch all,
Zur Krippe her kommet, in Bethlehems Stall.
Und sehet, was in dieser hochheiligen Nacht
Der Vater im Himmel für Freude uns macht.
Oh come, little children, oh come one and all,
To the manger in Bethlehem’s stall.
And see what in this most holy night,
Our Father in Heaven has given us for delight.
It’s gentle, not grand. And that’s the key to understanding Germany’s Christmas tone—it isn’t about spectacle. It’s about returning, year after year, to the same humble scene.
And then it’s Christmas Eve. Not December 25th—December 24th. For Germans, that’s the main event—the culmination of weeks of waiting.
The candles are lit. The tree stands tall. Gifts—Bescherung—wait under its glow. Dinner is ready, often goose or potato salad with sausages. And then, finally, the singing begins.
The first song is often Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht, the Austrian-born masterpiece that conquered the world. Written in 1816 by Joseph Mohr and set to melody by Franz Xaver Gruber two years later, it has been translated into over 300 languages. But in German, it still sounds like a prayer.
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft, einsam wacht
Nur das traute, hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright.
Only the holy couple awake—
Lovely boy with curly hair,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
The silence between verses is sacred. Even nonbelievers lower their voices. Berlin’s streets are empty, trains slow down, and from open windows across Mitte and Neukölln you can hear fragments of melody drifting into the cold air.
After Stille Nacht comes O du fröhliche—louder, jubilant, closing the circle of the season.
O du fröhliche, o du selige,
Gnadenbringende Weihnachtszeit!
Welt ging verloren, Christ ist geboren,
Freue dich, o Christenheit!
O how joyful, O how blessed,
Grace-bringing Christmastime!
The world was lost, Christ is born,
Rejoice, O Christendom!
It’s not a song—it’s a release. A collective exhale after weeks of waiting.
You don’t need to be religious to experience the power of Weihnachtslieder in this city.
And if you wander past a church late on Christmas Eve, you might still hear Stille Nacht breaking through the midnight stillness.
To learn more about Holidays and Festivities, read our feature on St. Martin’s Day in Berlin.
For many of us far from home, the First Christmas in Germany feels intimidating—quiet where ours were loud, restrained where ours were chaotic. But music bridges that distance.
Learn just one song. Sing it at a market, at a friend’s dinner, or alone in your flat with the candles lit. The words will do the rest.
Because that’s the secret of Weihnachtslieder: they are the language of warmth in a cold country. The steady pulse that turns winter into belonging.
And when you finally sing “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht” with everyone else, you’ll realize—you didn’t just survive Berlin’s winter. You joined it.
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