Behold a simple, 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 simple 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 weed.
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 liv'ries wear;
The Prince Himself is come from heav'n.
This pomp is prized there.
With joy approach, O Christian soul,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise this humble pomp,
Which He from heav'n doth bring.
First upload: November 2, 2003 / Update: Nov 30, 2009 with F200