They were all 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 how or when Thou wilt not heed,
But come down Thine own
secret stair,
That Thou mayst answer
all my need-
Yea, every bygone
prayer.
-
George MacDonald