New Prince, New Pomp

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.