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.