If I cannot be a wise man, guided by a star, Let me be an humble shepherd, as all my people are;
For, though I cannot bring rich gifts to Mary and her Son, And though a lonely hillside is my only Parthenon, I can feel the heaven’s glory – can hear the angels sing, And I know they are proclaiming the advent of a King.
When Mary saw the costly gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh, I sometimes wonder – wonder if they meant as much to her.
As the fleecy little blankets that wrapped her Blessed Child; And, somehow, when I think of this, I’m always reconciled;
To stay out in the lonely fields and follow up the sheep, So there may be warm blankets where little children sleep.
Wightman F. Melton Poet Laureate of Georgia