 | Saint Peters complaint |  |
The burning Babe.
As I in hoarie Winters night stoode shiuering in the snow,Surpris'd I was with sodaine heate, which made my hart to glow;
And lifting vp a fearefull eye, to view what fire was neare,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the ayre appeare;
Who scorched with excessiue heate, such floods of teares did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames, which with his teares were bred:
Alas (quoth he) but newly borne, in fierie heates I frie,
Yet none approach to warme their harts or seele my fire, but I;
My faultlesse breast the furnace is, the fuell wounding thornes:
Loue is the fire, and sighs the smoake, the ashes, shames and scornes;
The fewell Iustice layeth on, and Mercie blowes the coales,
The mettall in this furnace wrought, are mens defiled soules:
For which, as now on fire I am to worke them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood.
With this he vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called vnto minde, that it was Christmasse day.
| Saint Peters complaint | |