|
|
That Holy Thing.
By George MacDonald
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!
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 384 times.
|
|
