Soft, my child!  I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard: 
’Tis thy mother sits beside thee,
And her arm shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful story. 
How the Jews received their King,
How they served the Lord of Glory,
Makes me angry while I sing.

See the kinder shepherds round him,
Telling wonders from the sky! 
Where hey sought him, there they found him,
With his Virgin-mother by.

See the lovely Babe a-dressing: 
Lovely infant, how he smiled! 
When he wept, his mother’s blessing
Sooth’d and hush’d the holy Child.

Lo, he slumbers in a manger,
Where the horned oxen fed!—­
Peace, my darling, here’s no danger: 
There’s no ox a-near thy bed.

’Twas so save thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans and endless crying,
That thy blest Redeemer came.

May’st thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him all thy days,
Then go dwell for ever near him: 
See his face, and sing his praise!

I could give thee thousand kisses! 
Hoping what I most desire,
Not a mother’s fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire!