Behold a silly tender babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies:
Alas! a piteous sight.
The inns are full; no man will yield
This little pilgrim bed;
But forced He is with silly beasts
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there,
First what He is inquire:
An orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by Him feed;
Weigh not His Mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple **.
This stable is a Prince's court,
This crib His chair of state;
The beasts are parcel of His pomp,
The wooden dish His plate;
The persons in that poor attire
His royal liveries wear;
The Prince Himself is come from heaven,
This pomp is prizèd there.
With joy approach, O Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise this humble pomp
Which He from heaven doth bring.
