When from the East the Ma­gi came,
Led by the Star of Beth­le­hem,
The gifts they brought to Je­sus were
Of gold, and frank­in­cense and myrrh.

Bright gold of Oph­ir, pass­ing fine,
Proclaims a king of roy­al line;
For Da­vid’s son in Da­vid’s town,
Is born the heir of Da­vid’s crown.

The in­cense clouds, with frag­rance rare,
The pre­sence of a God de­clare;
Lo! kings in ado­ra­tion fall,
For Ma­ry’s Son is Lord of all.

The myrrh, with bit­ter taste, fore­shows
A life of sor­rows, wounds, and woes—
The dead­ly cup, that over­ran
With ang­uish for the Son of Man.

Our gold up­on Thine al­tar lies;
Our pray­ers to Thee, as in­cense, rise;
Accept as myrrh our tears and sighs:
O King, O God, O Sac­ri­fice!