I walk the streets and though not meanly drest, br Yet none so poor as can with me compare; br For none though weary call me into rest, br And though I hunger, none their substance share; br I ask not for my stay the broken reed, br That fails when most I want a friendly arm; br I cannot on the loaves and fishes feed br That want the blessing that they may not harm; br I only ask the living word to hear br From tongues that now but speak to utter death; br I thirst for one cool cup of water clear br But drink the riled stream of lying breath; br And wander on though in my Fatherland, br Yet hear no welcome voice and see no beckoning hand.