Page:Our American Holidays - Christmas.djvu/104

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My faultless brest the furnace is,
    The fuell, wounding thornes:
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,
    The ashes, shames and scornes;
The fuell justice layeth on,
    And mercy blows the coales,
The metalls in this furnace wrought,
    Are Men's defiled soules:
For which, as now on fire I am,
    To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath,
    To wash them in my blood.
With this he vanisht out of sight,
    And swiftly shrunke away,
And straight I called unto minde
    That it was Christmasse Day.