The Nativity Of Christe.
Behould the Father is His daughter's Sonne,
The bird that built the nest is hatched therein,
The Old of Yeares an hower hath not outrunne,
Eternall life to live doth now beginnn,
The Word is dumm, the Mirth of heaven doth weepe,
Mighte feeble is, and Force doth fayntely creepe.
O dyinge soules! behould your living Spring!
O dazeled eyes! behould your Sunne of grace!
Dull eares, attend what word this Word doth bringe!
Upp, heavy hartes, with joye your joy embrace!
From death, from darke, from deaphnesse, from despayres,
This Life, this Light, this Worde, this Joy repaires.
Gift better than Himself God doth not knowe,
Gift better than his God no man can see;
This gift doth here the giver given bestowe,
Gift to this gift lett ech receiver bee:
God is my gift, Himself He freely gave me,
God's gift am I, and none but God shall have me.
Man altred was by synne from man to best;
Beste's food is haye, haye is all mortal fleshe;
Now God is fleshe, and lyes in maunger prest,
As haye the brutest synner to refreshe:
O happy fielde wherein this foder grewe,
Whose taste doth us from beastes to men renewe!
Southwell.