They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes and lift them high;
Thou cam’st a little Baby thing
That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot
Naught but Thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea Thy sail.

My fancied ways why should’st Thou heed?
Thou com’st down Thine own secret stair;
Com’st down to answer all my need,
Yes, every bygone prayer.