Here is the Little Door

Here is the little door.
Lift up the latch, O lift!
We need not wander
but enter with our gift.

Our gift of finest gold--
Gold that was never bought nor sold.
Myrrh to be strewn about his bed.
Incence in clouds above his head.
All for the child that 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 honored, happy dead.
Gifts for His children
Terrible and sweet.
Touched by such tiny hands
and, O, such tiny feet.

G.K. Chesterson