| lyric | This little Babe so few days old,
Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;
Alll hell doth at his presence quake,
Though he himself for cold do shake;
For in this weak unarmèd wiese
The gates of hell he will surprise,
With tears he fights and wins the field,
His naked breast stands for a shield
His battering shot are babish cries,
Hisarrow looks of weeping eyes,
His marital ansigns Cold and Need,
And feeble Flesh his warrior’s steed.
His campo is pitcheèd in a stall,
His bulwark but a broken wall;
Thie crib his trench, haystalks his stakes;
Of shepherds he hismuster makes;
And thus, as sure his foe to wound,
The angel’s trumps alarum sound.
My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;
Stick to the tents that he hath pight.
WIthin his crib is surest ward;
This little Babe will be thy guard.
If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,
Then flit not from this heavenly Boy. |