I have no gift to herald forth
    a new born baby King;
Yet what I have I'm told will cause
    the Angel Choirs to sing.
No Gold or Frankinsence or Myrrah
    with which to celebrate --
But with the gift I give . . . instead
    His death I commemorate.
Though wretched is my offered gift --
    unworthy for a King . . .
On bended knee . . . before His cross
    a yielded soul I bring.