Thank you for the music: Like a thief in the night, He comes!

"Alms? Alms for the poor? Fair lady, will you give alms for the poor?"
The pitiful fellow sheltering as best he can under the arch of the gate against the chill of the driving rain is the only beggar I have seen today. The red raw skin of his craggy features tells a story of nights spent hiding from the frosts, and his clothing is an odd mixture of tattered homespun and once-fine velvet. Assuming that he is just unable to find work with an employer, it would be churlish of me indeed, not to give something. The busy market is only a few minutes walk up the hill and when I return with a warm meat pie the beggar is still working his patch. While he gratefully bites into the pie I try to slip a couple of Francs into his scrip without being too obvious.
"He comes, my lady. He comes! And none may stand before him."
I give him a perplexed look. "He comes, my lady. And Kings have tried to stop him, but he will not be stopped. He comes, and we must kneel before him. May God have mercy on my soul! He comes!"
It would seem the poor fellow has lost his wits! I cannot explain why I haven't made my way to the market which was my intended destination, and with the pie almost gone, my destitute companion begins to ramble once more:
"I was a sailor my lady, and visited far Indee where my christian soul was in danger of the heathen witchery. And for my soul's cure, I sailed to the Holy Land, but a hard time I had of it among the moors. God be thanked, though! He brought me safe home again to my native shore. A fine ship she was, with three tall masts, and a hold full of silver. But silver will not buy him, no. And he comes!"
Uncertain quite how to excuse myself, I pretend that I have just remembered that I have urgent business in town, and make my exit as quickly as I may, hoping that the beggar will seize on another passer-by. As I make my way up the hill once more I hear him singing in a cracked and uneven tone... Veni, veni, Emmanuel, come, come, God with us!