Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
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| 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. | |
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| 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 |
