here is the little door {by herbert howells}

here is the little door, lift up the latch, o 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 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 you 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 oh such tiny feet.

{my only nativity scene—a small hand-carved ornament from israel.}