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Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary: Rest Thee now. Though these hands be rough from shearing And the plough, Yet they shall not ever fail Thee, When the waiting nations hail Thee, Bringing palms unto their King. Now—I sing. Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary, Hope divine. If Thou wilt but smile upon me, I will twine Blossoms for Thy garlanding. Thou'rt so little to be King, God's Desire! Not a brier Shall be left to grieve Thy brow; Rest Thee now. Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary. Some fair day Wilt Thou, as Thou wert a brother, Come away Over hills and over hollow? All the lambs will up and follow, Follow but for love of Thee. Lov'st Thou me? Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary; Rest Thee now. I that watch am come from sheep-stead And from plough. Thou wilt have disdain of me When Thou'rt lifted, royally, Very high for all to see: Smilest Thou? |