The Ballad of the Cross

Melchior

Gas­par

Bal­tha­zar

Great gifts they bore and meet;

White lin­en for His bo­dy fair

And pur­ple for His feet;

And gold­en things—the joy of kings—

And myrrh to breathe Him sweet.

It was the shep­herd Ter­ish spake

Oh

poor the gift I bring—

A lit­tle cross of brok­en twigs

A hind’s gift to a king—

Yet

hap­ly

He may smile to see

And know my of­fer­ing.

And it was Ma­ry held her Son

Full soft­ly to her breast

Great gifts and sweet are at Thy feet

And won­ders king-pos­sessed;

O lit­tle Son

take Thou the one

That plea­sures Thee the best.

It was the Christ-Child in her arms

Who turned from gaud and gold

Who turned from wond­rous gifts and great

From pur­ple woof and fold

And to His breast the cross He pressed

That scarce His hands could hold.

’Twas king and shep­herd went their way—

Great won­der tore their bliss;

’Twas Ma­ry clasped her lit­tle son

Close

close to feel her kiss

And in His hold the cross lay cold

Between her heart and His!