This little Babe so few days old,
 [bad word] to rifle Satan’s fold;
All [bad word] doth at his presence quake,
Though he himself for cold do shake;
For in this weak unarmèd wise
The gates of [bad word] 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 thus, as sure his foe to wound,
The angels’ [bad word] [bad word] 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.