Were the world wider many fold,
And decked with gems and cloth of gold,
'T were far too mean and narrow all
To be for thee a cradle small!

The silk and velvet that are thine
Are rough hay, linen not too fine;
Thereon thou, king so rich and great,
Liest as if in heavenly state.

And this hath therefore pleased thee,
To make this truth right plain to me,
That all the world's power, honour, wealth
Are nothing to thy heart or health.

Ah, little Christ! my heart's poor shed
Would make thee a soft, little bed:
Rest there as in a lowly shrine,
And make that heart for ever thine,

That so I always gladsome be,
Ready to dance, and sing to thee
The lullaby thou lovest best,
With sweetest hymn for dearest guest.

Glory to God on highest throne
Who gave to us his only Own!
For this the angel troop sings in
A New Year with gladsome din.