Lord, you came,
Not as the lightening fills the skies
Nor with a warrior’s shout
But babies’ cries.
You claimed –
Not rights, not pomp, not majesty –
But just a pauper’s hovel
Among the refuse, hopelessly,
Lay other vagrants – all humanity.
You chose our lot,
And through those long and wintry hours,
Lay down your head amid the hay