Words: Isaac Watts (1674-1748)
Music: USA early 19th Century Arr. Watts

Hush my dear, lie still and lumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep me babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care and payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou art attended
Than the Son of God could be
When from heaven he descended
And became a child like thee.

Soft and easy is thy cradle;
Coarse and hard thy saviour lay,
When his birthplace was a stable
And his softest bed was hay.

Lo, he slumbers in a manger,
Where the horned oxen fed;
Peace, my darling, here's no danger,
Here's no ax a-near thy bed.

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.

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