Robert Southwell
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¶65 The Burning BabeAs I in hoary winter's nightStood shivering in the snow.Surprised I was with sudden heatWhich made my heart to glow;And lifting up a fearful eyeTo view what fire was near,A pretty babe all burning brightDid in the air appear;Who, scorched with excessive heat,Such Hoods of tears did shed,As though His floods should quench His flames.Which with His tears were bred:'Alas!' quoth He, 'but newly bornIn fiery heats I fry.[219]Yet none approach to warm their heartsOr 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 wroughtAre men's defiled souls:For which, as now on fire I amTo 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 sightAnd swiftly shrunk away,And straight I called unto mindThat it was Christmas Day.