The songs of praise were scarce­ly done,
Which mag­ni­fied the Fa­ther’s love
In send­ing forth His on­ly Son,
A per­fect of­fer­ing from above;

When He, the Lamb, un­blem­ished, bright,
Snatched from the ty­rant’s hands in time,
Amidst the si­lence of the night,
Sought re­fuge in a for­eign clime.

For mur­der’s threat­en­ing sha­dow fell
On Beth­l’hem, and the coasts around;
And scenes too sad for tongue to tell,
Were act­ed on that ho­ly ground.

A voice was heard of those that mourn,
A pi­te­ous plaint, a cla­mor wild;
The in­fant from its mo­ther torn,
The mo­ther wail­ing for her child.

’Twas heard in Ra­mah long be­fore,
When Ra­chel, bend­ing o’er the dead,
Bemoaned her child­ren now no more,
Refusing to be com­fort­ed.

O dark and la­ment­able day,
That saw ful­filled the pro­phet’s word,
The lamb-like vic­tims dragged away,
And slaugh­tered by the ty­rant’s sword.

Yet they were blest; that shin­ing band
First in the mar­tyrs’ ar­my stood;
Fair spring flow­ers, nipped by Her­od’s hand,
Torn from the stem, bap­tized in blood.

Then, mo­thers, cease your mourn­ing tones;
Resign in faith what God hath giv’n;
And count your part­ed lit­tle ones
His jew­els trea­sured up in Heav’n.