A substance unalloyed—fine gold I bring
To symbolize Your holy purity;
Yet it portends betrayal of a King,
A kiss, a sword, a crown of thorns, a tree.
Here’s frankincense—I leave it at Your feet—
Material born of sun and dew and sod.
Its rising smoke and precious fragrance sweet
Will soon, like You, convey our prayers to God.
And this is myrrh—they’ll use it in Your crypt.
A curious gift for such a tiny child!
But when You have from Your internment slipped
The victory will be yours, and Death reviled.
We kiss Your downy head, Emmanuel,
Our God—now clothed in skin—who with us dwells.
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