words for advent

for all you poets out there, try this:

and here’s a poem, fitting for the season

HUSH, my dear; lie still and slumber
Holy angels guard thy bed;
Heavenly blessings, without number,
Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe! Thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide,
All without thy care or payment;
All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou’rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven he descended,
And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle;
Coarse and hard thy Savior lay,
When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softest bed was hay.

Blessed Babe! what glorious features.
Spotless, fair, divinely bright!
Must he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford
To receive the heavenly Stranger?
Did they thus affront the Lord?

Soft, my child! I did not chide thee,
Though my song may sound too hard
‘Tis thy mother sits beside thee,
And her arms shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful story,
How the Jews abused their King,
How they served the Lord of glory,
Makes me angry while I sing.

See the kinder shepherds round him,
Telling wonders from the sky;
There they sought him, there they found him,
With his virgin mother by.

See the lovely Babe a-dressing–
Lovely Infant! how he smiled!
When he wept, his mother’s blessing
Soothed and hushed the holy Child.

Lo! he slumbers in a manger,
Where the horned oxen fed
Peace, my darling! here’s no danger
Here’s no oxen near thy bed.

‘Twas to save thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans and endless crying,
That thy blest Redeemer came.

May’st thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him, all thy days;
Then go dwell forever near him,
See his face, and sing his praise.

I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother’s fondest wishes
Can to greater joy aspire.

-Isaac Watts
happy advent, Church.

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