1. 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 or 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 hold with ass and sheep. 2. 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 Oh such tiny feet.