Sing a Song of Seven

       It is a curious fact that one of the most effective means of inspiring gratitude is by contemplating on the means of somebody worse off than oneself. Even more intriguing is the truth that almost all of us were better off in our earlier years than Christ was. I don't think any of us decked a manger as our first cradle. And I'd be rather surprised if you told me your parents had to flee the country shortly after you were born due to an evil king wanting you dead.
      In this little known song I'm going to share with you, Isaac Watts, hymn writing genius that he was, uses this theme as a lullaby. In the form of a mother singing her baby to sleep. I fell in love with this simple little little verse that I'm thinking I might just memorize it and sing my babies to sleep with it someday.
       Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "A Cradle Hymn" wherein a mother first soothes her child with the recollection that he is far better off than our Lord at His incarnation, and then goes on to tell the Christmas story in simple terms followed by a prayer that her child might someday grow to love and trust this great God who did all this for Him.

      It's a beautiful melody as well, and I think you'll enjoy this arrangement sung by the Westminster Abbey Choir. Need I say more?

     The poem is a long one and understandably the arranger chose not to sing all the verses, but I'm including them all below because I think they're worth reading. I'll highlight the stanzas they do sing for your convenience in case you want to follow along.
      It's a little hard at first to understand choirs singing in Cathedrals because of the huge amount of resonance unless you either know the words or have them in front of you. At least so I found at the beginning. After a while you sort of pick it up, until then, however, enjoy this lovely hymn and take a moment to thank our good Lord for becoming a baby out of love for us.


         

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,	5
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,	10
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	15
And His softest bed was hay.
Blessèd babe! what glorious features—
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must He dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?	20
Was there nothing but a manger
Cursèd sinners could afford
To receive the heavenly stranger?
Did they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,	25
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,	30
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,	35
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 hush'd the holy child.	40
Lo, He slumbers in His manger,
Where the hornèd oxen fed:
Peace, my darling; here 's no danger,
Here 's no ox anear thy bed.
'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,	45
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;	50
Then go dwell for ever near Him,
See His face, and sing His praise!

Indeed, may we all dwell with Him forever. I know there's nobody else I'd rather spend all eternity with.

     Until then, my friends, I remain "songfully" yours,

~ Christianna