Dear lit­tle One! how sweet Thou art,
Thine eyes so bright they shine,
So bright they al­most seem to speak
When Ma­ry’s looks meet Thine.
How faint and fee­ble is Thy cry,
Like plaint of harm­less dove,
When Thou dost mur­mur in Thy sleep
Of sor­row and of love.

When Ma­ry bids Thee sleep Thou sleep’st,
Thou wak­est when she calls;
Thou art con­tent up­on her lap,
Or in the rug­ged stalls.
Simplest of Babes! with what a grace,
Thou dost Thy mo­ther’s will,
Thine in­fant fash­ions all be­tray
The God­head’s hid­den skill.

When Jo­seph takes Thee in his arms,
And smoothes Thy lit­tle cheek,
Thou look­est up into his face
So help­less and so meek.
Yes! Thou art what Thou seem’st to be,
A thing of smiles and tears;
Yet Thou art God, and Heav’n and earth
Adore Thee with their fears.

Yes! dear­est Babe! those ti­ny hands,
That play with Ma­ry’s hair,
The weight of all the migh­ty world
This ve­ry mo­ment bear.
Art Thou, weak Babe, my ve­ry God?
O I must love Thee then,
Love Thee, and yearn to spread Thy love
Among for­get­ful men.