Little Canticle of the Virgin

As you rummage through the palms,

holy angels,

that my child might sleep,

still the branches.

Palms of Bethlehem

that the furious winds,

which sound so much,

move angrily:

do not make noise,

run more slowly,

that my child might sleep,

still the branches.

The divine child,

that is weary

of the sorrows of the earth,

for his rest,

he wishes a little

respite from his tender weeping.

That my child might sleep,

still the branches.

Harsh cold

surrounds him;

and you see I have nothing

to protect him.

Angels divine

that go on flying,

that my child might sleep,

still the branches.