NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP
Behold a silly, 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 he is with silly beasts
In crib to shroud his head.
Despise Him not for lying there;
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 feed;
Weigh not His mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This stable is a Prince's court,
The crib His chair of state;
The beasts are parcel of His pomp,
The wooden dish His plate.
The persons in that poor attire
His royal liveries wear;
The Prince Himself is come from heaven:
This pomp is prizëd there.
With joy approach, O Christian wight!
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise this humble pomp,
Which He from heaven doth bring.
—Robert Southwell, SJ