Now legend tells an old folk tale

Of how that need was met

While Herod’s men tramped o’er the hills

And tighter drew the net.

Inside the cave a spider sat

Who watched the sleeping Child

And longed to save him from the cold

And temperature so wild.

“I am”, thought he, “so small myself

There’s little I can do,

But right across the cavern’s mouth

I’ll weave a curtain true”.

That’s what the Littlest Spider did

Till he could spin no more,

So that the cave was sealed at last

By hoar clad silken door.

The family heard approaching feet

Of soldiers prowling near

And trembled as a coarse voice cried,

“I think they may be here”.

Their captain came and saw the web,

But knew not what it meant.

“No one”, said he, “has been through here.

The web has not been rent”.

“See how it glistens in the frost,

Unbroken and intact.

No need to waste our time in there,

And that, lads, is a fact.

The Infant still no crying made.

The soldiers went their way.

The family, thankful for relief,

Slept safely till the day.

The Littlest Spider also slept,

Worn out by all he’d done,

And curled contentedly inside

The robe of God’s dear Son.

So that is why your Christmas Tree

With tinsel is bedecked,

For it recalls the Spider’s web

With shining hoar frost flecked.