BabeThis little Baby 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 unarmèd wise
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,
His arrows looks of weeping eyes,
His martial ensigns Cold and Need
And feeble Flesh his warrior's steed.

His camp is pitchèd in a stall,
His bulwark but a broken wall
The crib his trench, haystalks his stakes
Of shepherds 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.

Copyright: CONCORD MUSIC PUBLISHING LLC
Writer(s): Benjamin Britten