He had no crown upon his head
When first he met me by the way,
His feet upon the thorns had bled,
His gown was trodden gray:
But in his eyes, stars, moon, and sun,
Were one.

He came, his empty hands outheld,
I gave to him with glad good-will:
And since my pitying heart rebelled
That he should fare so ill,
I took his gold head to my breast
For rest.

Then lo! his empty hands were piled
With all gifts craved in dreams of mine,
And over me the pilgrim-child
Spilled benefits divine:
Joy, Heart's Desire, and Peace most fair,
Fell there.

For my great pity in his stress
Because that sad and bare he went,
I now am clad with happiness,
And rich in sweet content:
'Twas Love, the King, who crossed my way
To-day.