The Burning Babe

As I in hoary winter’s night Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye To view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright Did in the air appear; Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though His floods should quench His flames, Which with His tears were bred: ‘Alas!’ quoth He, ‘but newly born In fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire but I! ‘My faultless breast the furnace is; The fuel, wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke; The ashes, shames and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought Are men’s defilèd souls: For which, as now on fire I am To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood.’ With this He vanish’d out of sight And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I callèd unto mind That it was Christmas Day.