Classic Poem

He cometh not a king to reign,
The world's long hope is dim;
The weary centuries watch in vain
The clouds of heaven for him.

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet
A present help is he,
And faith has still its Olivet,
And love its Galilee.

The healing of his seamless dress
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch him in life's throng and press,
And we are whole again.

In joy of inward peace, or sense
Of sorrow over sin,
He is his own best evidence,
His witness is within.