The trhree Kings hitched their waggon to the Star
And gave the Star its head. Now near, now far,
Now in, now out, now to and fro it led;
Never straight. Journeys are always curly,
Like comets or like hairpins they are meant
To crown or to lead up to some event.
Herod did all he could to prevent
Their coming. This journey had its hazards.
He broke the poles, and he cut the wires,
He stole their pump and he deflated their tyres,
And he turned their messengers into liars;
But in vain.
He muffled the knocker, disconnected the bell,
Turned up his radio till it howled like hell,
Changed his name and address as well;
But in vain.
December now; the Three kings stood
Benighted in the deepest wood,
The wits‑end of their hardihood.
No longer kings, but helpless now
They threw away their golden bough;
They stamped upon their golden crowns
And damned the country, damned the towns.
They’d lost the Star, their only link
And anchor-light. O not a blink
No hope, no help in earth or sky!
— They gave a last despairing cry.
Then suddenly all raised a shout
For overhead the Star flared out
Just like a fan: and there they saw
In the last ditch, on the last straw,
In front of them a heavenly child.
See! it looked up at them and smiled.
It was the child within themselves
For which they’d sought, for which Age delves
— Now Age and Innocence can meet,
Now, now the circle’s complete,
The journey’s done. Lord, Lord, how sweet!
©: W.R.Rodgers(1909 – 1969). He was born in Belfast. After some years as a Presbyterian minister he went to London in 1945 to begin a distinguished career as a broadcaster with the BBC.
Compare the above with the more famous account of the same journey by T.S.Eliot.
A Christmas poem by another Belfast poet, Louis MacNeice.