We, three kings of Orient are, bearing gifts
we traverse afar Field and fountain, moor
and mountain, following yonder star.
O star of wonder, star of night,
star with royal beauty bright,
Westward leading, still proceeding,
guide us to the perfect light.
Born a king on Bethlehem’s plain, Gold I bring to
crown Him again; King forever, ceasing never
over us all to reign.
Frankincense to offer have I: Incense owns
a deity nigh; prayer and praising, gladly raising,
worship him, God, on high.
Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume breathes a life
of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding,
dying, sealed in the stone-cold tomb.