New heaven, New war

Benjamin Britten set these words to music in his "Ceremony of Carols" (an all-time favorite choral piece of mine!) but the poem was written in the late sixteenth-century. I love the juxtaposition of the weakness of a newborn baby and the power of that baby's calling. This is only an excerpt; you can read the poem in its entirety here.

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 made 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, hay stalks 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 dight;

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 the heavenly boy.

Robert Southwell