Melchior, Gas­par, Bal­tha­zar,
Great gifts they bore and meet;
White lin­en for His bo­dy fair
And pur­ple for His feet;
And gold­en things—the joy of kings—
And myrrh to breathe Him sweet.

It was the shep­herd Ter­ish spake,
Oh, poor the gift I bring—
A lit­tle cross of brok­en twigs,
A hind’s gift to a king—
Yet, hap­ly, He may smile to see
And know my of­fer­ing.

And it was Ma­ry held her Son
Full soft­ly to her breast,
Great gifts and sweet are at Thy feet
And won­ders king-pos­sessed;
O lit­tle Son, take Thou the one
That plea­sures Thee the best.

It was the Christ-Child in her arms
Who turned from gaud and gold,
Who turned from wond­rous gifts and great,
From pur­ple woof and fold,
And to His breast the cross He pressed
That scarce His hands could hold.

’Twas king and shep­herd went their way—
Great won­der tore their bliss;
’Twas Ma­ry clasped her lit­tle son
Close, close to feel her kiss,
And in His hold the cross lay cold
Between her heart and His!