They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes and lift them high;
Thou camíst 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 shouldíst Thou heed?
Thou comíst down Thine own secret stair;
Comíst down to answer all my need,
Yes, every bygone prayer.