Hush, my dear, lie still and slum­ber,
Holy an­gels guard thy bed,
Heav’nly bless­ings with­out num­ber,
Gently fall­ing on thy head.
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 Sav­ior lay:
When His birth­place was a stable,
And His soft­est bed was hay.
Oh, to tell the won­drous sto­ry,
How His foes ab­used their king;
How they killed the Lord of glo­ry,
Makes me an­gry while I sing.

Hush, my child, I did not chide thee,
Though my song may seem so hard;
’Tis thy mo­ther sits be­side thee,
And her arms shall be thy guard.
May’st thou learn to know and fear Him,
Love and serve Him all thy days;
Then to dwell for­ev­er near Him,
Tell His love and sing His praise.