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 to shake; For in this weak unarmed 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 look of weeping eyes, His martial en-signs Cold and Need, And feeble Flesh his war-rior's steed. His camp is pitch-ed 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 a-la-rum sound. My soul, with Christ join thou in fight; Stick to the tents that he hath pight. With-in his crib is surest ward; This little Babe will be thy gaurd. If thou wilt foil... thy foes with joy,... Then flit not from... this he-ven-ly Boy. ...