The Burning Babe
This poem was written by Father Robert Southwell, S.J., in 1594 while awaiting execution in the Tower of London.
As I in hoary Winter's night
Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with 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, scorched with excessive heart,
Such floods of tears did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames,
With which his tears were fed;
Alas (quoth he) but newly born,
In fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts,
Or 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, shame and scorn;
The fuel Justice layeth on,
And Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men's defiled 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 called unto mind,
That it was Christmas.