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14 Ah me, how the thorns have entangled thy hair, And cruelly riven that forehead so fair! How feebly thou drawest thy faltering breath, And lo, on thy face is the paleness of death!

Oh, Shepherd, Good Shepherd, and is it for me Such grievous affliction hath fallen on thee? Oh, then let me strive, for the love thou hast borne, To give thee no longer occasion to mourn.

 

, my babe, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed, Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head. How much better thou'rt attended Than thy Saviour chose to be, When from heaven he descended And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle, Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay; For his birth-place was a stable, And his softest bed was hay. 