Here Is The Little Door

Here is the little door, lift up the latch, oh lift! We need not wander more but enter with our gift; Our gift of finest gold, Gold that was never bought nor sold; Myrrh to be strewn about his bed; Incense in clouds about his head; All for the Child who stirs not in his sleep. But holy slumber holds with ass and sheep. Bend low about his bed, for each he has a gift; See how his eyes awake, lift up your hands, O lift! For gold, he gives a keen-edged sword (Defend with it Thy little Lord!), For incense, smoke of battle red. Myrrh for the honoured happy dead; Gifts for his children terrible and sweet, Touched by such tiny hands and Oh such tiny feet.