Hush Thee, hush Thee, little Son, Dearest and divinest One; Thine are all the untamed herds That upon the mountain go, Thine are all the timid birds, Thine the thunders and the snow. Cry not so. Husho, my dear! Thunder shall not come Thee near While its roar shall frighten Thee. Mother holds Thee safe and warm; Thou shalt walk upon the sea And cry "Peace" unto the storm. Thou shalt take the souls of men In Thine hand, as I a wren. But not yet, not yet, my Son. Thou art still a babe asleep All Thy glories are un-won, All mine own Thou art to keep. Some day I shall see Thee stand King and Lord of every land. Now I feed Thee at my breast, And delight to feel Thee near. Some day--Ah! this time is best. Hush Thee, hush Thee, Babe most dear! |