A Cradle Hymn

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,

Holy angels guard thy bed!

Heavenly blessings without number

Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,

House and home, thy friends provide;

All without thy care or payment:

All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou'rt attended

Than the Son of God could be,

When from heaven He descended

And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle:

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,

When His birthplace was a stable

And His softest bed was hay.

Blesséd babe! what glorious features—

Spotless fair, divinely bright!

Must He dwell with brutal creatures?

How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger

Curséd sinners could afford

To receive the heavenly stranger?

Did they thus affront their Lord?

Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,

Though my song might sound too hard;

'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,

And her arms shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful story

How the Jews abused their King,

How they served the Lord of Glory,

Makes me angry while I sing.

See the kinder shepherds round Him,

Telling wonders from the sky!

Where they sought Him, there they found Him,

With His Virgin mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing;

Lovely infant, how He smiled!

When He wept, the mother's blessing

Soothed and hush'd the holy child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger,

Where the hornéd oxen fed:

Peace, my darling; here's no danger,

Here's no ox anear thy bed.

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,

Save my dear from burning flame,

Bitter groans and endless crying,

That thy blest Redeemer came.