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.
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