My faultless brest the furnace is,
  The fuell, wounding thornes:
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,
  The ashes, shames and scornes;
The fuell justice layeth on,
  And mercy blows the coales,
The metalls in this furnace wrought,
  Are Men's defiled soules:
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 vanisht out of sight,
  And swiftly shrunke away,
And straight I called unto minde
  That it was Christmasse Day.