A Christmas Masque

I am the monarch Melchior, Mighty alike in peace and war.

I am the sovereign Balthasar; A myriad fold my liegemen are.

The royal ruler Jasper, I, Lord of a spacious empery.

Yet do I seek a little child,—

A tiny nursling undefiled;

And I am one likewise beguiled.

To Him whose coming stars foretold,— A babe divine in mortal mould,— I bear this goodly gift of gold.

To Him whose life shall ease the sting Of mankind’s weary travailing, This fragrant frankincense I bring.

To Him whose loving words shall stir To aspirations holier, My offering is this precious myrrh.

Piercing the mists of time, we see The cruel cross, the agony, And, whelmed with pity, bend the knee. Piercing the mists of time, we gaze Adown the future’s opening ways, And hear the swelling prayer and praise. Piercing the mists of time, we hail The day when woe and sin shall fail, And over all His love prevail.