The Christmas Offering

We come not with a costly store,
O Lord, like them of old,
The masters of the starry lore,
From Ophir's shore of gold:
No weepings of the incense tree
Are with the gifts we bring,
No odorous myrrh of Araby
Blends with our offering.
But still our love would bring its best,
A spirit keenly tried
By fierce affliction's fiery test,
And seven times purified:
The fragrant graces of the mind,
The virtues that delight
To give their perfume out, will find
Acceptance in thy sight.