Sweet Babe, that wrapped in twi­light shade,
Upon Thy mo­ther’s lap wast laid;
Grant, ho­ly Je­sus, grant that we
May im­i­tate Thine in­fan­cy.

And when we seek our low­ly bed,
While mid­night dark­ens ov­er our head,
From rav­en­ing wolves, kind Shep­herd, keep
This lit­tle flock of Thy poor sheep.

Speak peace un­to our souls, and tell
Of hea­ven­ly joys with Thee that dwell;
So shall our spi­rit, all night long,
Sing to our God her thank­ful song.

Thus, as the dy­ing day grows dim,
To God we raise our ev­en­ing hymn;
And laud, with Hea­ven’s bright an­gel host,
The Fa­ther, Son, and Ho­ly Ghost.