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 the wheels are not,
Nor on the sea thy sail!
My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed?
Thou cam'st down thine own secret stair;
Com'st down to answer all my need,
Yea, every bygone prayer!