I tear up every time I hear this song, and read the poem that inspired this wonderful orchestration.

I’ve included the words from the most beautiful poem constructed by a Saint of the Catholic Church.

To borrow –
The Burning Babe was taken from a collection called St. Peter’s Complaint, printed privately and circulated shortly after the poet’s execution in 1595. Ben Johnson said that he would have been content to destroy many of his own poems to have written The Burning Babe. The version with archaic spelling is taken from the 1972 Reprint from AMS Press New York of 1872 Fuller Worthies Library edition edited by Alexander B. Grosart. The version with modern spelling is taken from The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1900, edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch, 1919.

Listen to the majesty of this symphonic creation.
And then read the poem below.
Unlike the intricacies of the arranged music, read the poem in its simplicity… with an open heart.
Let it, literally, infect you.
And then… read it again.  And again.
Utter beauty.

Oh, how we are loved by Love.
And I haven’t a clue.  Not the foggiest.

St. Robert Southwell, pray for us.

Merry Christmas, one and all.

 

THE BURNING BABE

by Robert Southwell
As I in hoary Winter’s night stood shiveringe in the snowe,
Surpris’d I was with sodayne heat, which made my hart to glowe;
And liftinge upp a fearefull eye to vewe what fire was nere,
A prety Babe all burninge bright, did in the ayre appeare.
Who scorchèd with excessive heate, such floodes of teares did shedd,
As though His floodes should quench His flames which with His teares were fedd;
Alas! quoth He, but newly borne, in fiery heates I frye,
Yet none approch to warme their hartes or feele my fire but I!
My faultles brest the fornace is, the fuell woundinge thornes,
Love is the fire, and sighes the smoke, the ashes shame and scornes;
The fuell Justice layeth on, and Mercy blowes the coales,
The metall in this fornace wrought are men’s defilèd soules,
For which, as nowe on fire I am, to worke them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to washe them in My bloode:
With this He vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shroncke awaye,
And straight I callèd unto mynde that it was Christmas-daye.