The graves of all His saints He blessed, And softened every bed: Where should the dying members rest, But with their dying Head? But Dr. Watts was not a man whose whole thought was centred on the world to come. After the fashion not only of his own time, but of the religious men of most times, he speaks slightingly of earth and its charms; but when he allows himself to dwell on its beauty and glory he writes, I think, with a clearer and more poetic vision than Wesley, as in his ‘Song to Creating Wisdom’— Eternal Wisdom, Thee we praise. The hymns of Dr. Watts are so well known that it is difficult to select any that would worthily represent him without repeating what is already familiar to every reader. ‘The Cradle Song’ is one of the most delightful lullabies ever written, and shows Watts in a charming and unexpected light. 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. Blessèd 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 Cursèd 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 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! There 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 hornèd 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 for ever 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.[102]