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When Mary hath appeased Thy thirst,
And hushed Thy feeble cry, The hearts of men lie open still
Before Thy slumbering eye.
Art Thou, weak Babe ! my very God?
Oh I must love Thee then, Love Thee, and yearn to spread Thy love
Among forgetful men.
O sweet, O wakeful-hearted Child!
Sleep on, dear Jesus ! sleep; For Thou must one day wake for me
To suffer and to weep.
A Scourge, a Cross, a cruel Crown
Have I in store for Thee; Yet why? one little tear, O Lord!
Ransom enough would be.
But no! death is Thine own sweet will,
The price decreed above; Thou wilt do more than save our souls,
For Thou wilt die for love.