A Ceremony of Carols: This Little Babe Songtext

von Benjamin Britten

This little Babe so few days old,
Is come to rifle Satan's fold;
All hell doth at his presence quake,
Thourgh he him self 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 on signs Cold and Need,
And teeble Flesh his warrior's steed.

His camp is pitched in a stall,
His bulworb but a broken wall;
The crib his tren of, hays talks 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;
With is his crib is surest ward,
This little Babe will be thy guard;
If thou will foil thy toes with joy,
Then tlit not from this heavenly Boy.