"Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born, in fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I! My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls, 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 vanish'd out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away; And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmasday.
-- R. Southwell