Wise men from the Orient came
To the manger where Christ lay,
Knelt with gladness, not with shame,
By the baby's bed of hay.

Ermine robes and quilts of down
Are the right of infant kings,
Only one poor mantle brown
O'er her child sweet Mary flings;

Can so mean a cradle hide
What these Eastern Magi seek?
Ah, the heart forgets its pride
When the intellect is meek;

They have striven in many lands
To supply their famished souls,
Crossed, perhaps, Arabia's sands,
Wandered sadly toward the poles,

But success their search has crowned
Not till, tired and travel-worn,
They have learned that Truth is found
Oftenest in a manger born.

So we wander blind and poor,
Hungry-hearted, sick with sin,
Till at last some humble door
Of God's mystery shuts us in;

Stables then like castles are,
Lowly men like princes born,
Glad are we when any star
Heralds any Christmas morn.