Murder of the Innocents

The songs of praise were scarce­ly done

Which mag­ni­fied the Fa­ther’s love

In send­ing forth His on­ly Son

A per­fect of­fer­ing from above;

When He

the Lamb

un­blem­ished

bright

Snatched from the ty­rant’s hands in time

Amidst the si­lence of the night

Sought re­fuge in a for­eign clime.

For mur­der’s threat­en­ing sha­dow fell

On Beth­l’hem

and the coasts around;

And scenes too sad for tongue to tell

Were act­ed on that ho­ly ground.

A voice was heard of those that mourn

A pi­te­ous plaint

a cla­mor wild;

The in­fant from its mo­ther torn

The mo­ther wail­ing for her child.

’Twas heard in Ra­mah long be­fore

When Ra­chel

bend­ing o’er the dead

Bemoaned her child­ren now no more

Refusing to be com­fort­ed.

O dark and la­ment­able day

That saw ful­filled the pro­phet’s word

The lamb-like vic­tims dragged away

And slaugh­tered by the ty­rant’s sword.

Yet they were blest; that shin­ing band

First in the mar­tyrs’ ar­my stood;

Fair spring flow­ers

nipped by Her­od’s hand

Torn from the stem

bap­tized in blood.

Then

mo­thers

cease your mourn­ing tones;

Resign in faith what God hath giv’n;

And count your part­ed lit­tle ones

His jew­els trea­sured up in Heav’n.