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SONGS OF THE SOUL
WHERE I AM
Not the lordly domes on high
With tall heads daring clouds and sky,
Nor alabaster shining floors,
Nor the rich organ’s awesome roar,
Nor rainbowed windows’ beauty quaint
With colossal chronicles told in paint,
Nor torch nor incense’ curling soar,
Nor gay-dressed children of the choir,
Nor well-planned sermon,
Nor loud-tongued prayer
Can call Me there.
The richly carven door,
Through which all pomp and pride pour,
I deign not through to go;—
But still I come Incognito.
The stony, polished altar
Or narrow builded sermon seat
Too narrow seems to hold
My large, large Body for retreat.
A humble magnet-call,
With tall heads daring clouds and sky,
Nor alabaster shining floors,
Nor the rich organ’s awesome roar,
Nor rainbowed windows’ beauty quaint
With colossal chronicles told in paint,
Nor torch nor incense’ curling soar,
Nor gay-dressed children of the choir,
Nor well-planned sermon,
Nor loud-tongued prayer
Can call Me there.
The richly carven door,
Through which all pomp and pride pour,
I deign not through to go;—
But still I come Incognito.
The stony, polished altar
Or narrow builded sermon seat
Too narrow seems to hold
My large, large Body for retreat.
A humble magnet-call,
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