Child, unto death do you wound my heart.
The voice of an angel, I have not
What Mary sees, I know not
Only my heart, have I, and this you know.
Oh, even a warm place to offer you I do not have!
Gold, incense and myrrh are not my gifts,
Empty, are my calloused hands.
Only a warm love, have I, with which to cover you.
Oh, what has your incomprehensible love done to you?
Sleep little one, my all.
You dream of being recompensed by a humanity which has so enamored you.
The Creator yearns for the love of the creature!
Oh, and if a dream comes to disturb you in the night,
Little one, my all,
Here I am for you,
Here I am to keep vigil through the night.