They came from elsewhere,
from prayers spoken in another tongue,
from charts of fire and dust
where the heavens were read like a scroll
never meant to stay closed.

Not sons of covenant,
not schooled in the law,
but watchers of the night
who trusted that light is never random,
that a star may choose a road.

They carried with them
the weight of old rituals,
hands scented with incense meant for other altars,
yet something in them knew
this light was different.

First came the shepherds,
empty-handed and trembling,
the poor kneeling where straw still remembered breath.
Then these outsiders arrived,
learned and unsure,
bringing gifts they barely understood.

Gold for a child who would unseat kings.
Frankincense for a God who would learn hunger.
Myrrh for a life already bending toward the grave.

They stood in the presence of promise
without the language to name it,
and were welcomed anyway.

Thus was the world widened.
The door opened beyond bloodline and boundary.
The star did not ask where they were from,
only whether they would follow.

And in their turning home by another way,
the Gospel had already begun.