μυστηρίον ξένον.

OH, wondrous mystery, full of passing grace!
The grot becometh Heaven: the Virgin’s breast
The bright Cherubic Throne: the stall that place
Where He, Who fills all space, vouchsafes to rest:
Christ our God, to Whom we raise
Hymns of thankfulness and praise.

The course propitious of the unknown Star
The Magi followed on its heavenly way,
Until it led them, beckoning from afar,
To where the Christ, the King of all things, lay:
Him in Bethlehem they find.
Born the Saviour of mankind.

“Where is the Child,” they ask, — “the new-born King,
Whose herald-light is glittering in the sky, —
To Whom our offerings and our praise we bring?”
And Herod’s heart is troubled utterly.
Armed for war with God, in vain
Would he see that Infant slain.

-ST. COSMAS