O lit­tle One who art so great,
Today there would be weep­ing skies;
For ho­ly Heav’n fore­sees the hate
Against Thee that on earth will rise;
Were not the ho­ly Hea­ven sure
That love will work of hate the cure.

A heart the glad­dest and the best
Thou hast, Thy Fa­ther’s babe and ours;
Smile, lit­tle One, in hap­py rest,
There wait Thee dark tu­mul­tu­ous hours;
I see them, O, I see them near,
And al­most wish Thou wert not here.

I know Thee, Je­sus, who Thou art;
But what have we to do with Thee,
That Thou shouldst choose the bit­ter­est part,
And sink Thy­self in mi­se­ry?
Sorrows Thy love will steep Thee in,
But sor­rows love for Thee will win.

Rest, Nurs­ling, in Thine in­no­cence;
King Her­od’s dag­ger can­not slay;
To dark­er death Thou go­est hence,
Toiling along a nar­row way,
Which ev­er leads from bad to worse,
All thor­ny with an an­cient curse.

A curse! O mo­ther, dost thou hear
What must be­fall thy lit­tle son?
Smile, Ba­by, at Thy mo­ther’s tear,
The bless­ing by the curse is won;
Purer than snow will be our gains,
By hor­ror of His crim­son stains.