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 is He with sense­less beasts
In crib to shroud His head.

Despise Him not for ly­ing here,
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 press
Weigh not His mo­ther’s poor at­tire,
Nor Jo­seph’s sim­ple dress.

This sta­ble is a prince’s court,
The crib His chair of state;
The beasts at­tend­ants on His pomp,
The wood­en dish His plate.
The per­sons in that poor at­tire
His roy­al liv­er­ies wear;
The Prince Him­self is come from Heav’n,
This pomp is priz­èd there.

With joy ap­proach, O Chris­tian soul,
Do hom­age to thy king;
And high­ly praise His hum­ble pomp,
Which He from Heav’n doth bring.