A Hymn for Holding Babies

My husband and I just got back from a Minnesota Thanksgiving with our dear family including nine grandchildren! While we enjoyed hugs and cuddles from all grands, two of our grandchildren aren't quite one year old yet and were extra small small to hold in a special way.

So is there a hymn for holding babies? Of course! There are several.

But for today's everyday hymn series post, I couldn't help but think of this Christmas lullaby hymn from Isaac Watts. 

It's a long one that starts off soft and sweetly, gets surprisingly passionate in the middle and closes with a wish to which every parent (and grandparent) relates.

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,
And, without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou art tended
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 Saviour lay,
When his birth-place 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 might sound too hard;
’Tis thy mother* sits beside thee,
And her arm 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!
Where 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 hush’d the holy child.

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

’Twas so 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 joys aspire.