A comet dangling in the aire,
Presag'd the ruine both of Death and Sin;
And told the wise-men of a King,
The King of Glory, and the Sun
Of Righteousness, Who then begun
To draw towards that blesed Hemisphere.
They from the furthest East this new
And unknown light pursue,
Till they appeare
In this blest Infant-King's propitious eye;
And pay their homage to His Royalty.
Persia might then the rising Sun adore,
It was idolatry no more:
Great God they gave to Thee,
Myrrhe, frankincense, and gold;
But Lord, with what shall we
Present our selves before Thy majesty,
Whom Thou redeem'st when we were sold?
W'have nothing but our selves, and scarce that neither,
Vile dirt and clay:
Yet it is soft, and may
Impression take:
Accept it, Lord, and say, this Thou had'st rather;
Stamp it, and on this sordid metal make
Thy holy image, and it shall out-shine
The beauty of the golden myne.
Amen.