1 Come to your heav’n, you heavenly choirs,
Earth hath the heaven of your desires.
Remove your dwelling to your God;
A stall is now His best abode.
Since men their homage do deny,
Come, angels, all their fault supply.
2 His chilling cold doth heat require;
Come, seraphim, in lieu of fire.
This little ark no cover hath;
Let cherubs’ wings His body swathe.
Come, Raphael, this Babe must eat;
Provide our little Savior meat.
3 Let Gabriel be now His groom,
That first took up His earthly room.
Let Michael stand in His defense,
Whom love hath linked to feeble sense.
Let Graces rock when He doth cry,
And angels sing His lullaby.
4 The same you saw in heav’nly seat
Is He that now sucks Mary’s teat;
Now see your king a mortal wight,
His borrowed weed deceives your sight.
Come, kiss the manger where He lies,
That is your bliss above the skies.
5 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 doth shake;
For in this weak unarmèd wise
The gates of hell He will surprise.
6 With tears He fights and wins the field,
His tiny 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.
7 His camp is pitchèd in a stall,
His bulwark but a broken wall,
The crib His trench, hay stalks His stakes,
Of shepherds He His army makes;
And thus, as sure His foe to wound,
The angels’ trumps the charge now sound.
8 My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;
Stick to His tents, the place of might.
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 heav’nly Boy!
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