Foil thy foes with joy

Some Korean moms invited us Logos teachers to a concert by a Cambodian children's choir.  It's run by a Korean NGO that works with low-income children and families.  "You won't believe how good they are!  If you love music, it will bring hope to you for Cambodia!"  they promised us.  Four of us gladly accepted tickets, but tried not to get our hopes up too much.  They'll be super-cute, and we'll enjoy it no matter what...

No, they were seriously amazing.  I haven't heard a choir that good in years. 

They sang in English, Korean, Khmer, and even Middle English: Benjamin Britten's "Ceremony of Carols."  Its text is taken from 16 Middle English poems on Christmas, and I found the words powerful and fresh.  

I used to think the hundreds of Christmas songs I knew had expressed the wonders of Christ's birth pretty thoroughly.  Do we really need MORE Christmas songs?  But I'm realizing that's idiotic.  If the almighty God really did become a baby, the implications are endless.  I wonder what other gems we've forgotten over the centuries.

Here's the text of one song, "This Little Babe."  It's the second half of the poem "New Heaven, New War" by Robert Southwell.  I love the paradoxical imagery.

    (Side note: my dear friend Suzanne sent me a link to this free Christmas album by Andrew Peterson.  I love him for his creative, thought-provoking, and sometimes playful lyrics.  The album, called "Behold the Lamb of God: the TRUE tall tale of the coming of Christ," may contain the only song ever composed about the genealogy of Jesus...it's called "Matthew's Begats."  Even if you're sick of Christmas songs, these are mostly originals, and go far beyond the story of Jesus' birth.) 

        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 unarmèd 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 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 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;

        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.