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111

8-Cradle hymn.

8,7,8,7

Hush, my dear! Lie still, and slumber!

Holy angels guard thy bed!

Heavenly blessings, without number,

Gently falling on thy head.

112

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.

113

Blessed 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

Cursed sinners could afford,

To receive the heavenly stranger?

Did they thus affront the Lord?

Soft, my child! I did not chide thee,

Though my song might sound too hard:

’Tis thy mother sits beside thee,

And her arm shall be thy guard.

114

Yet to read the shameful story.

How the Jews received 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 hey 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, his mother’s blessing

Sooth’d and hush’d the holy Child.

115

Lo, he slumbers in a manger,

Where the horned oxen fed!—

Peace, my darling, here’s no danger:

There’s no ox a–near thy bed.

’Twas so save thee, child, from dying,

Save my dear from burning flame,

Bitter groans and endless crying,

That thy blest Redeemer came.

May’st thou live to know and fear him,

Trust and love him all thy days,

Then go dwell for ever near him:

See his face, and sing his praise!

116

I could give thee thousand kisses!

Hoping what I most desire,

Not a mother’s fondest wishes

Can to greater joys aspire!

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