Come to your heav’n, you heav’n­ly choirs,
Earth hath the heav’n 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Come to your hea­ven, yowe hea­ven­ly quires!
Earth hath the hea­ven of your de­sires;
Remove your dwell­inge to your God,
A stall is nowe His beste aboade;
Sith men their hom­age do de­nye.
Come, an­gells, all their fault sup­ply.

His chill­ing could doth heate re­quire,
Come, se­ra­phins, in liew of fire;
This lit­tle ark no cov­er hath,
Let che­rubs’ winges His boo­dy swath;
Come, Ra­phi­ell, this babe must eate,
Prouide our lit­tle To­bie meate.

Let Ga­bri­el be nowe His groome,
That first tooke upp His earth­ly roome;
Let Mi­chell stand in His de­fence,
Whome love hath linckd to fee­ble sence;
Let Grac­es rocke, when He doth crye,
And an­gells singe His lul­ly­bye.

The same yow sawe in hea­ven­ly seate,
Is He that now suckes Mar­ye’s teate;
Agnize your Kinge a mor­tall wighte,
His bo­rowed weede letts not your sight
Come, kysse the maun­ger where He lies;
That is your blisse ab­oue the skyes.

This lit­tle babe so fewe daies olde,
Is come to ri­fle Sa­tan’s foulde;
All hell doth at His pre­sence quake,
Though He Him self for cold do shake;
For in this weake un­armed wise
The gates of hell He will sur­prise.

With teares He fightes and wynnes the feild,
His nak­ed breste standes for a sheilde,
His bat­ter­ing shott are bab­ishe cryes,
His ar­rowes, lookes of weep­inge eyes,
His mar­tiall en­signes, colde and neede.
And fee­ble fleshe His war­ri­er’s steede.

His campe is pitch­èd in a stall,
His bul­warke but a brok­en wall,
The cribb His trench, hay-stalkes His stakes,
Of shepe­herdes He His mus­ter makes;
And thus, as sure His foe to wounde,
The an­gells’ trumpes alar­um sounde.

My soule, with Christ joyne thow in fighte;
Sticke to the tents that He hath pight;
Within His cribb is sur­este warde,
This lit­tle babe will be thy garde;
If thow wilt foyle thy foes with joye,
Then flitt not from this hea­ven­ly boye.