The hymn of the day at St. Paul’s in Kewanee for the Sunday after Christmas was Robert Southwell’s sixteenth-century poem “This LIttle Babe,” which I set to music in 1997.

I first encountered it years ago as part of Benjamin Britten’s majestic work “A Ceremony of Carols,” and I found its words so striking and edifying that I thought it needed to be made more accessible to people for singing. The problem with Britten’s work, as beautiful as it is, is that it’s hard to meditate on the selection of medieval carols scattered throughout, because of the interplay of the choral voices.

So I took to composing a more singable melody for it, which we have been occasionally singing here for several years now.

Southwell’s words are worthy of careful meditation. They emphasize the magnificently humble manner in which our Lord defeated the devil. This is sometimes called the Theology of the Cross; we might as well call it the Theology of the Manger, especially in this marvelous hymn.

1.         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,

And in this weak unarm-ed wise The gates of hell He will surprise.

2.         With tears He fights and wind the field, His naked breast stands for a shield;

His batt’ring shots are babish cries, His arrows looks of weeping eyes,

His martial ensigns Cold and Need, And feeble flesh His warrior’s steed.

3.         His camp is pitchèd in a stall, His bulwark but a broken wall;

The crib his trench, haystacks His stakes; Of shepherds He His muster makes;

And thus, as sure His foe to wound, The angels’ trumps alarum sound.

4.         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!