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The Portland Cello Project
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This Little Babe
Portland Cello Project
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,
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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. ...
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