THEY all were looking for a king <br /> To slay their foes and lift them high: <br />Thou cam'st, a little baby thing <br /> That made a woman cry. <br /> <br />O Son of Man, to right my lot <br /> Naught but Thy presence can avail; <br />Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, <br /> Nor on the sea Thy sail! <br /> <br />My how or when Thou wilt not heed, <br /> But come down Thine own secret stair, <br />That Thou mayst answer all my need-- <br /> Yea, every bygone prayer.<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/that-holy-thing/
