A Word from Benjamin Britton

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 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 thy foes with joy, then flit not from this heavenly Boy.