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 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 thu, 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