Epiphany poem

As a follow up to my Advent/Christmas poems, I have composed a poem in honor of today's feast (traditionally) of the Epiphany. Below is the text of the poem. It's no T. S. Eliot, but I'm proud of it.

Comments are welcome.

“Three Wise Men”

Caspar

My body aches from this long journey,

And yet, though tired, I see the light.

Ahead, I tell them, and on we ride,

Chasing a dream through dim-lit night.

South, they said, from the capital city,

On we ride. Where to tonight?

Beth-something, he had said.

I hope my gold is worth enough.

I hope my gilded gift gives grace enough.

I hope He grows in strength enough.

Enough to rule, enough to guide,

With wiser men then me beside

His throne, his holy pedestal.

He’ll rule for sure,

O’er rich and poor.

He’ll rule for sure

Someday soon.

For now here sits His royal treasure,

His future glory etern’ly sure.

Balthazar

It smells so sweet, my hanging bag,

The scent of incense wafting up,

Like Heaven swinging by my side.

I hope that Heaven accepts its prize.

This king, this Lord, it is of Him,

The one I read of, the one I sung of,

The one for whom we longed for years.

And now we journey towards time stood still

To stop

To come to a castle grand,

Standing strong through shifting sign.

God Himself! Lord! Amen!

The King of Kings! And here we come,

A cave refined, a sanctuary of God.

I bring for you, sweet Lord, sweet scent for prayer,

That thoughts and hopes might fill sweet air.

He smiles, He smirks, He kingly grins.

Now Heaven’s earthbound reign begins.

Melchior

I know Him who has come to die.

Life to bring, death to wring

Out of any moisture,

Any blood, any water.

I felt He needed this gift of sorrow,

For who knows what will come tomorrow.

Will His life be filled with joy?

Or will that life be Satan’s soft toy,

To rip, to tear, to eat alive.

Death from life, Life to die.

So myrrh I bring, a gift so solemn,

For such a joyful happy occasion.

Yet I know to bring it, with faith I do so,

For death will die at this one’s command.

If He is He who we have sought,

Then any foul word will be for naught,

And any foul deed will be as air,

Nothing at all, no structure, nothing.

I come to a baby, an infant king,

I leave, no normal king, for sure,

No sir. It’s He who came

for all who live,

For all who lived,

And all who shall;

I give my morbid gift to Him,

Perhaps, of course, regarding them all,

A useless gift, worthless, small.

If He accepts what I bring for Him,

Then all is not for naught again,

Then all is light and joy and cheer,

Then all is kingdom, glory,

Power and blessing, honorable singing,

Prayers rejoicing, echoing through

A land recalled by men so few.

This babe, as man, likewise ignored,

And myrrh he’ll need,

For what’s in store.