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Babe, that, wrapt in twilight shade, Upon Thy Mother's lap wast laid, Grant, Holy Jesu, grant that we May imitate Thine infancy.

And, when we seek our lowly bed, While midnight darkens o'er our head, From ravening wolves, kind Shepherd, keep This little flock of Thy poor sheep.

Speak peace unto our souls, and tell Of heav'nly joys with Thee that dwell; So shall our spirit, all night long, Sing to our God her thankful song.

Thus, as the dying day grows dim, To God we raise our evening hymn; And laud, with heaven's bright Angel host, The Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Mirrour of the Father's face Darkness from the world gan chase When, as mortal vested God was manifested. Wherefore, Christens, up and sing To Jesus Christ, of heaven King. God is born, go meet Him, And with carol greet Him.

The Maid hath borne the Holy One, God the Father's only Son, Of His great compassion, Found in human fashion.