Art's "tender strokes" in thee I seek in vain.
The polished corner, and the gaudy pane;
The walls are whitewashed, and the altar bare.
Yet how I love thee, little house of prayer!
Type truer of the One who stooped so low,
Than the grand minster with its stately show;
In whose high soaring pinnacles I trace
Little which tells us of the lowest place.
But, lowly house of God, I read in thee
The winning smile of true humility —
And I am touched — I long to lift the latch,
And bow my knees beneath thy roof of thatch.
The proud may sneer, but God does not disdain
The want of splendour in this meagre fane.
Nor does He wish to sweep thy stones away —
True witnesses for Jesus Christ are they:
Despised, unseen, such lowly churches preach
A lowly Christ within a sinner's reach.
