Holy angels and blest,
Through the palms as ye sweep
Hold their branches at rest
For my babe is asleep.
And ye Bethlehem palm-trees
As stormy winds rush
In tempest and fury
Your angry noise hush;-
Move gently, move gently,
Restrain your wild sweep;
Hold your branches at rest
My babe is asleep.
My babe all divine,
With earth’s sorrows oppressed,
Seeks slumber an instant
His grievings to rest;
He slumbers,- he slumbers,-
O, hush then and keep
Your branches all still,-
My babe is asleep.
Cold blasts wheel about him,-
A rigourous storm,-
And ye see how, in vain,
I would shelter his form;-
Holy angels and blest
As above me ye sweep,
Hold these branches at rest,-
My babe is asleep.