Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903. For Christmas Anonymous
AND 1 art Thou come, blest Babe, and come to me? Come down to teach me how to come to Thee? Welcome, thrice welcome, to my panting soul, Which, as it loves, doth grieve that ’tis so foul. The less ’tis fit for Thee come from above, 5 The more it needs Thee, and the more I love. But art Thou come, dear Saviour? hath Thy love Thus made Thee stoop and leave Thy throne above, Thy lofty heavens, and thus Thyself to dress In dust to visit mortals? Could no less 10 A condescension serve, and after all The mean reception of a cratch and stall? Dear Lord, I’ll fetch Thee hence! I have a room— ’Tis poor, but ’tis my best—if Thou wilt come Within so small a cell, where I would fain 15 Mine and the world’s Redeemer entertain. I mean my heart; ’tis sluttish, I confess, And will not mend Thy lodging, Lord, unless Thou send before Thy harbinger, I mean Thy pure and purging Grace, to make it clean, 20 And sweep its nasty corners; then I’ll try To wash it also with a weeping eye. And when ’tis swept and wash’d, I then will go And with Thy leave I’ll fetch some flowers that grow In thine own garden, Faith and Love, to Thee; 25 With these I’ll dress it up, and these shall be My rosemary and bays. Yet when my best Is done, the room’s not fit for such a guest: But here’s the cure; Thy presence, Lord, alone Will make a stall a Court, a cratch a Throne. 30
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