Angels! ye holy
Who fly through the palm-groves,
Hold quiet the branches —
My Babe is asleep.
Palm-groves of Bethlehem
That sway in the tempest,
The winds are loud moaning
As through you they sweep;
Restrain your wild fury,
Move gently above us;
Hold quiet your branches —
My Babe is asleep.

My Child, My divine One,
Who came down from Heaven,
What pangs He must suffer!
What tears He must weep!
Oh! let Him one moment
Forget all His anguish,
Hold quiet your branches —
My Babe is asleep.
The tempests blow ’round Him;
You see that I have not
Wherewith from my Darling
The cold blasts to keep.
O angels! ye holy
Who o’er us are flying,
Hold quiet the branches —
My Babe is asleep.
