That Holy Thing

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That Holy Thing

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

Nought but thy presence can avail;

Yet on the road thy wheels are not,

Nor on the sea thy sail!

My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed?

Thou com’st down thine own secret stair:

Com’st down to answer all my need,

Yea, every bygone prayer!