Three Kings
We were not three
And not kings
At least not when we arrived.
And really more curious than wise,
Craning for truth in starlit skies
But at least looking
At least checking
What we thought we knew:
A king born for the Jews.
No, we were not wise.
More stupid than wise,
Asking another king
To point us to a rival’s cradle.
But at least asking,
And finding truth in the old scroll,
Truth a murderer would not recognise,
But wary to ply us with winsome lies
And play a deferential role.
No, we were not so wise.
More blind than wise,
Searching for a king
For someone else,
But at least searching
And finding, in someone else’s king
Our end, the end of lifeless ways
The rule for all our days.
Later, they fancied us kings
In that there was only this truth.
He who would wear a crown
Must first bow low,
Must first bow down.
From Mark Greene’s Adventure Book – a series of poems for Advent
The Journey of the Wise
From eastern hills they rode by night,
Three seekers of a holy sign,
A star burned bright with silver light,
And led them past the desert’s line.
They crossed the sands where silence lay,
Through kingdoms wrapped in dreams of gold,
Each heart was stirred to kneel and pray—
The prophecies of old retold.
The city slept, the star stood still,
Above a house both poor and small;
Their gifts they laid with reverent will,
Before the Child who ruled them all.
No crown they wore, no pride they kept,
But wonder in their eyes did gleam;
For wisdom bowed its head and wept—
Before the Hope of every dream.