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!SourceThe script ran 0.002 seconds.
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