The Infant Jesus

Dear Little One! how sweet Thou art,
Thine eyes how bright they shine,
So bright they almost seem to speak
When Mary's look meets Thine!

How faint and feeble is Thy cry,
Like plaint of harmless dove,
When Thou dost murmur in Thy sleep
Of sorrow and of love.

When Mary bids Thee sleep Thou sleep st,
Thou wakest when she calls;
Thou art content upon her lap,
Or in the rugged stalls.

Simplest of Babes! with what a grace
Thou dost Thy Mother's will!
Thine infant fashions well betray
The Godhead's hidden skill.

When Joseph takes Thee in his arms,
And smooths Thy little cheek,
Thou lookest up into his face
So helpless and so meek.

Yes! Thou art what Thou seem st to be,
A thing of smiles and tears;
Yet Thou art God, and heaven and earth
Adore Thee with their fears.

Yes! dearest Babe! those tiny hands,
That play with Mary's hair,
The weight of all the mighty world
This very moment bear.

While Thou art clasping Mary's neck
In timid tight embrace,
The boldest Seraphs veil themselves
Before Thine infant Face.

When Mary hath appeased Thy thirst,
And hushed Thy feeble cry,
The hearts of men lie open still
Before Thy slumbering eye.

Art Thou, weak Babe! my very God?
Oh I must love Thee then,
Love Thee, and yearn to spread Thy love
Among forgetful men.

O sweet, O wakeful-hearted Child!
Sleep on, dear Jesus! sleep;
For Thou must one day wake for me
To suffer and to weep.

A Scourge, a Cross, a cruel Crown
Have I in store for Thee;
Yet why? one little tear, O Lord!
Ransom enough would be.

But no! death is Thine own sweet will,
The price decreed above;
Thou wilt do more than save our souls,
For Thou wilt die for love.