Robert Southwell (c. 1561–1595)

AS I in hoary winter’s night

Stood shivering in the snow,

Surprised I was by 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 the 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 vanished out of sight,

And swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I callèd unto mind

That it was Christmas Day.