This text comes from A First Series of Hymns and Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Hush, 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.
Was there nothing but a manger
Hapless sinners could afford,
To receive the heavenly stranger.
Their Redeemer and their Lord?
See, the humble shepherds round him
Gaze with mingled love and fear;
Where they sought him, there they found him,
With bis virgin Mother near,
Lo, he slumbers in his manger,
Where the horned oxen feed;
Peace, my darling, here's no danger,
Here no ox is near thy bed.
'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,
From the ever-burning flame,
Bitter groans and endless crying,
That this holy Infant came.
May'st thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him all thy days,
Then to dwell for ever near him,
See his face, and sing his praise.