This little babe
So few days old
Is come to rifle Satan's fold
All hell doth at
His presence quake
Though he himself
For cold do shake;
For in this weak unarmed wise
The gates of Hell he will surprise
With tears he fights
And wins the field
His naked breasts stands for a shield;
His battering shots are babish cries
His arrows looks of weeping eyes
His martial ensigns Cold and Need
And feeble flesh his warrior's steed
His camp is pitched in a stall
His bulwark but a broken wall;
The crib his trench
Haystalks his stakes;
Of shepards he his muster makes;
And thus as sure his foe to wound
The angels' 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