The Gift That Speaks: Myrrh
There’s a running joke in our house that I should never be trusted with a surprise. I love giving gifts so much that the waiting becomes unbearable. I’ll wrap something for my husband with the full intention of saving it for the right moment…and then, an hour later, I’ve hovering in the doorway saying, “Don’t you want one little hint?” Before long I’m making him play the guessing game—because if I don’t let him guess, I’ll just blurt it out myself. I can’t help it! I get too excited!
I asked Aj once what his favorite gift from me was, and was a little surprised by the answer. On the first anniversary of his sobriety (what I lovingly call his “other” birthday), I gave him a penny from the year he stopped drinking. I just thought it was a cute little way to memorialize his achievement. But he still carries it around in his wallet. To everybody else, it’s just a penny—but to him, it’s a token that speaks deeper than words, the kind that makes you feel seen, known, and loved.
There are some gifts we receive that stay with us long after the wrapping paper is thrown away. Not because they were expensive or extravagant, but because they carry meaning—layers of thoughtfulness that linger. And as I thought back to the wise men kneeling before Jesus, I realized again how intentional their gifts truly were.
In Part 1, we explored frankincense: the gift meant for a High, Holy Priest, the One who would mediate for us, intercede for us, and bring us close to the Father. But priests do more than pray; they offer sacrifices. So now we come to the most bitter of the three.
A gift that speaks of suffering.
A gift that whispers of death.
A gift that declares from the very beginning: This child was born to die.
Myrrh is a bitter, aromatic resin gathered from the Commiphora tree. It’s harvested drop by drop as the tree’s bark is pierced and the sap bleeds out—almost a foreshadowing of the wounds that would one day purchase our salvation.
In biblical times, myrrh carried deep meaning. It was used to embalm the dead, preserving bodies for burial, slowing decay, and showing honor to the deceased. Myrrh is present at both Jesus’s birth and His burial, forming a kind of prophetic circle. He arrived into the world with myrrh at His feet and left it wrapped in its fragrance. John’s gospel tells us that Nicodemus brought a 75-pound mixture of myrrh and aloes to prepare His body for the tomb (John 19:39-40).
Myrrh could also be used as a perfume, worn by wealthy brides and grooms, symbolizing beauty, devotion, and a costly love. Its other purpose was as an anesthetic—mixed with wine and given to dull pain, especially during crucifixions (Mark 15:23).
Everything about myrrh is tied to suffering, death, love, and sacrifice. Which means this small gift wasn’t accidental or decorative. It was prophetic. It declared that this baby boy—the one Mary cradled in her arms, the one Joseph protected, the one the shepherds came to adore—was born to die. Isaiah had already foretold the coming of this child, the Suffering Servant who would be despised, rejected, pierced, and crushed for our iniquities (Isaiah 53). The gift of myrrh was the announcement that the road to our redemption would be stained with blood long before it ever shone with glory.
While Jesus hung on the cross, the soldiers there offered Him wine mixed with myrrh to dull His pain. But He refused it. Our Suffering Savior chose to feel every lash, every thorn, and every nail. He chose to take on the full, crushing weight of sin and judgment without the numbing aid He could have rightly taken. He drank only from the cup His Father placed before Him. Isaiah prophesied that He would be led like a lamb to the slaughter, silent before His executioners. That silence wasn’t deafening weakness—it was quiet surrender. The King of kings didn’t defend Himself. He spoke only to reveal who He was and to finish the work God had given Him.
When you understand the depths of His suffering, complete devotion becomes the only reasonable response. How could you possible live otherwise? Paul’s words in Romans 12:1 offer new meaning: “Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.” We can never repay Jesus, but we can choose to worship Him. We can choose to life a life shaped by gratitude, poured out because His was poured out first.
Understanding His suffering can also transform ours. Scripture tells us not to be surprised by trials, but to rejoice, because our suffering becomes a shared place with Christ (1 Peter 4:12-13).
I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of His resurrection and participation in His sufferings, becoming like Him in His death. . . (Philippians 3:10)
Myrrh reminds us that suffering is never meaningless. It isn’t punishment or abandonment. It’s often an invitation into deeper intimacy with Jesus, who knows suffering personally, holds us within it, and redeems it in ways we can rarely see up close.
If myrrh declares the suffering of the Savior, then gold declares the reign of the King. The story doesn’t end in bitterness. The cradle leads to the cross, but the cross leads to the crown. Next week, we’ll explore the gift of gold and what it tells us about the eternal kingship of Jesus.
Jesus, thank You for being the Savior who didn’t turn away from suffering. Thank You for feeling every pain and every weight of sin on my behalf. Teach me to see Your love in the places where life feels bitter. Teach me to trust You in the moments that feel costly. Never let me forget what You have done for me or the price you paid so I could be free. Let my life become a fragrant offering of full devotion—not out of obligation, but out of grateful surrender. Draw me into the fellowship of Your suffering so that I may also share in the joy of Your resurrection. Amen.