George Macdonald.

1824-1905

777   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
     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.