JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY


Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary:
Rest Thee now.
Though these hands be rough from shearing
And the plough,

Yet they shall not ever fail Thee,
When the waiting nations hail Thee,
Bringing palms unto their King.
Now--I sing.

Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary,
Hope divine.
If Thou wilt but smile upon me,
I will twine
Blossoms for Thy garlanding.
Thou'rt so little to be King,
God's Desire!
Not a brier
Shall be left to grieve Thy brow;
Rest Thee now.

Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary.
Some fair day
Wilt Thou, as Thou wert a brother,
Come away
Over hills and over hollow?
All the lambs will up and follow,