Out from the ris­ing of the sun,
O’er tracts of de­sert wild,
The Ma­gi came on jour­ney lone,
To seek the Heav’n-born Child;
The star o’er­head their foot­steps led,
And hope their way be­guiled.

They bore Him cost­ly gifts of gold,
And myrrh and spic­es sweet:
For He is King, they had been told,
Whom they would meek­ly greet;
And they would go, in re­ver­ence low,
And wor­ship at His feet.

O hum­ble Child, in man­ger laid!
The wise be­held Thee there,
And re­ver­ent­ly their ho­mage paid,
And gave their of­fer­ings rare.
Their quest was found, and to the ground
They bowed the head in pray­er.

O Je­su, who in man­ger lay,
The Son of God most high,
Let me my hum­ble hom­age pay,
And bring my of­fer­ings nigh.
And hum­bly greet Thee at Thy feet,
And low in wor­ship lie.