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 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 pitched 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 foes with joy then
flit not from this heavenly Boy!
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