They came from lands of ori­ent light,
By glo­ri­ous hopes in­spired:
Their eyes had seen the Day-star bright,
By na­tions long de­sired;
What burn­ing mes­sage from the skies
Had swept across each soul?
What mid­night call had turned their eyes
To seek blest Is­ra­el’s goal?

Had cap­tive ex­iles, weep­ing sore,
Zion’s Re­deem­er sung,
Till Zion’s song for­ev­er­more
Through ali­en lands had rung?
Had mer­chan­dise, with bet­ter things
Than frank­in­cense for fame,
Wafted among those east­ern kings
The frag­rance of a name?

The name Em­ma­nu­el? did they yearn
To know His scep­ter’s rule?
And fain would sage or mon­arch learn
In fa­vored Is­ra­el’s school?
Oh! songs of won­der rang of old
Across the wa­ters blue,
When Egypt’s bil­lows back­ward rolled
To let the tribes pass through!

And ech­oes of tri­um­phant psalms,
And pray­ers for Zi­on’s king,
Still whis­pered, ’mid the des­ert palms,
From Is­ra­el, wan­der­ing.
A po­et sang in grand­est strain
Of Ja­cob’s Morn­ing Star—
Of One whose still in­creas­ing reign
Should bless the na­tions far.

And while the tent­ed war­ri­ors lay
In Mo­ab’s plain be­low,
Prophetic lips, though tempt­ed, may
Utter no word of woe.
He blessed the hap­py tribes! He saw
Where Ju­dah crouched to spring—
The con­quer­ing Li­on, He whose law
Subject the world should bring.

Then Ar­non sang a thun­der psalm
Amid his dark ra­vines!
While an­swer­ing tor­rents broke the calm
Amid the som­ber pines.
And so the glad ev­an­gel crept,
As twil­ight in­to day;
And so the glad ev­an­gel swept
The gloom of night away.

And some it meets with me­te­or flash,
In mid­night vi­gil giv’n,
And some it greets with cym­bal clash,
And her­ald songs from Heav’n!
Let all who hear, obey! and rise
To greet the com­ing King—
With east­ern pil­grims time­ly wise
Their ea­ger hom­age bring!

They jour­neyed on. Moons waxed and waned,
Yet glowed faith’s death­less fires:
Vast plains were crossed, or ere they gained
The land of fond de­sires.
And pil­grim rap­tures greet them now,
The rip­pling fords they throng.
O wind­ing Jor­dan, greet them now
With ca­ta­ract and song!

Through dark ra­vine, where tor­rents leap,
Through gorge and keen cre­vasse,
The bur­dened camels climb the steep
Ascent of mount­ain pass.
The Ho­ly Mount they view afar;
The roc­ky fast­ness gleams—
At last the long­ing pil­grims reach
The ci­ty of their dreams!

One thought is theirs, one ea­ger quest,
The King—O where is He?
Though pa­lace fair holds not such guest,
They yearn His face to see.
Ring out, pro­phet­ic song, and tell
Where Is­ra­el’s scep­ter lies!
And where the Prince of Peace may dwell,
Show, me­te­or in the skies!

They come! they come! A lit­tle child
With beck­on­ing hand, doth call;
They bend be­fore the Un­de­filed—
The Lord and God of all.
And gold and in­cense, trea­sures meet
For earth’s di­vin­est king,
They pour in wor­ship at His feet—
The Gen­tiles’ of­fer­ing.

They learn the name of sav­ing health,
By her­ald an­gels giv’n:
The world wide trea­su­ry of wealth
Outpoured from boun­te­ous Heav’n
On us! For fel­low heirs are we
With Zi­on. Who can tell
Our mer­cies, trea­sures, glo­ries free—
Riches un­search­able?

What bring we to our sav­ing God,
With heart and hand up­lift?
O’er waste and wild the sag­es trod,
For wor­ship and for gift.
O lag­gard race to own the King!
Closed hands shall work us woe!
Fleet foot and op­en hand would bring
The Church a swift in­flow.

Yea, they would come from east, from west,
Obedient to Love’s call—
Would fly, as doves to seek their rest
Ere midn­ight sha­dows fall.
We lose by our with­hold­ing—choose
Fair lot apart from pain.
The life so saved, al­as! we lose,
And Ra­chel mourns her slain.

We yield our trea­sures to the world,
Our sons for earth­ly fame,
Although our ban­ner brave un­furled
Bears Christ’s vic­to­ri­ous name.
Let Him take all! Fair child­hood’s dreams,
And man­hood’s force­ful fires;
And let Him turn youth’s rap­tur­ous streams
To work His grand de­sires.

Let Him take all! Not yet we find
Wherewith to serve our Lord.
Let not a hoof be left be­hind,
According to His Word!
Return, calm age of sim­ple need,
Wealth’s full­ness bold­ly cast
At Christ’s own feet—if true our creed,
Of Love’s en­thu­si­ast!

He will be no man’s debt­or! Swift
He’ll rain His gifts on thee;
Transmute to gold thy hon­est gift
By Heav’n’s own al­che­my!
O Church of Christ! arise and prove
Thy un­used wealth in Him;
Closed hands have shown thy wan­ing love,
Thy faith and hope grown dim.

We see not yet what bright in­crease
May wait on home­ly gift;
His mi­ra­cles shall ne­ver cease
To bless with an­swer swift.
We see not yet what un­dreamed pow­ers
May spring from low­ly faith;
Let us be­lieve all things are ours,
For so the Mas­ter saith.

Still let the old he­ro­ic blood,
Which stirred in east­ern sage,
Impel to ea­ger, ear­nest mood
This doubt­ing, self­ish age.
And doubt, for idle dream­ers meet,
And scorn, of dark­ness born,
Shall end in wor­ship at His feet,
Who is our Star of Morn.