The kings to the stable
They brought sweet spice.
Gold and silver,
jewels of price.
But the dove by the manger
she would not cease
Mourning so softly:
Bring Him peace!
The Kings of the Orient
brought nard and clove.
The dove went mourning:
Bring Him love! Bring Him love!

What would content Him in silver and gold,
a newborn Baby but one hour old?
Myrrh shall not please Him, nor ambergris,
that hath the sweet savour of His mother's kiss.

There is clash of battle,
And men hate and slay:
From the noise and the tumult
she hides Him away.
But His sleep is fitful
on His mother's breast,
The Dove goes mourning:
Give Him rest; give Him rest!