Hush you, my baby,
so soon to be grown,
watching by moonlight
on mountains alone,
toiling and travelling
so sleep while you can,
till the Lord of all glory
is seen as a man.

Hush you, my baby,
the years will not stay;
the cross on the hilltop
the end of the way.
Dim through the darkness,
in grief and in gloom,
the Lord of all glory
lies cold in the tomb.

Hush you, my baby,
the Father on high
in power and dominion
the darkness puts by;
bright from the shadows,
the seal and the stone,
the Lord of all glory
returns to his own.

Hush you, my baby,
the sky turns to gold;
the lambs on the hillside
are loose from the fold;
fast fades the midnight
and new springs the morn,
the Lord of all glory
a Saviour is born.

'Hush you, my baby' by Timothy Dudley-Smith (b. 1926). © Timothy Dudley-Smith in Europe and Africa. © Hope Publishing Company in the United States of America and the rest of the world. Reproduced by permission of Oxford University Press. All rights reserved.

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