We three kings of Orient are, Bearing gifts we traverse afar,
Field and fountain, morr 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 babe (king) on Bethlehem's plain; Gold we 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, all men raising,
Worship Him, God on High.
Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume Breathes a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, Seal'd in the stone-cold tomb.
