O God, our help in ages past;
  Our hope for years to come;
  Be thou our guard while troubles last,
  And our eternal home!

  A CRADLE HYMN

  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 Saviour 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 their Lord?

  Soft, my child:  I did not chide thee,
  Though my song might 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! 
  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, the mother’s blessing
  Soothed and hushed the holy child.

  Lo, He slumbers in His manger,
  Where the horned oxen fed;
  Peace, my darling:  here’s no danger,
  Here’s no ox a-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!

ALEXANDER POPE

  FROM AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM

  ’Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
  Appear in writing or in judging ill;
  But, of the two, less dangerous is th’ offense
  To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. 
  Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
  Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
  A fool might once himself alone expose,
  Now one in verse makes many more in prose.