Sabaean odours load the air;
See myrrh, as though for burial brought;
The flash of royal gold is there;
But where is he for whom 'tis sought?
Behold him, on the Spotless Virgin's knee,
The Priest, the Man, the Monarch — lo, 'tis he.

Mother of God, the eastern star
Shines brightly on the humble shed
Where wise Chaldaeans, led from far,
Bend low before before the Infant Head;
The priestly arms spread forth to bless e'en now;
Stedfast to win the crown by death, the brow.

Mother of Sorrows, mark the word,
And ponder it within thy heart —
Through thine own soul shall pierce the sword
Ere God full knowledge shall impart;
Then shalt thou see, with re-awakened eye,
The signs worked out of the Epiphany.

Upon the great Good Friday morn,
Thy Son in royal guise shall stand
With purple robe, and crown of thorn,
And sceptred reed in his right hand:
When these things come to pass, look up; behold
The first great sign worked out — the gift of gold.

When priestly arms on Calvary's crest
In intercession wide are spread,
And to that blessing from their rest,
Hades sends forth the sainted dead,
The second gift behold — see heavenward rise
Atoning incense of the sacrifice.

The Soul has fled; the vexed limbs sleep;
O'er both the Godhead spreads its span:
Bring myrrh and spices; vigil keep
Over the Archetypal Man:
With eyes of awful love and bated breath,
Lady, behold the myrrh — the type of death.


In mystic number, vested white,
The presbyters around the Throne
Cast down their crowns of golden light,
Their Maker and their Lord to own;
" For he is worthy of all praise," they sing,
" Of heaven and earth Creator, Lord, and King."

Unchangeable the priesthood's vow,
Which this Man, pure from human stain,
Yet Man in all things, offers now —
Himself for sin the Victim slain.
At last the threefold gifts in one concur;
Here blend the gold, the frankincense, the myrrh.