London Churches
I Stood, one Sunday morning,
Before a large church door,
The congregation gathered,
And carriages a score,—
From one out stepped a lady
I oft had seen before.
Her hand was on a prayer-book,
And held a vinaigrette;
The sign of man’s redemption
Clear on the book was set,—
But above the cross there glistened
A golden Coronet.
For her the obsequious beadle
The inner door flung wide;
Lightly, as up a ball-room,
Her footsteps seemed to glide,—
There might be good thoughts in her,
For all her evil pride.
But after her a woman
Peeped wistfully within,
On whose wan face was graven
Life’s hardest discipline,—
The trace of the sad trinity
Of weakness, pain, and sin.
The few free-seats were crowded
Where she could rest and pray;
With her worn garb contrasted
Each side in fair array,—
“God’s house holds no poor sinners,”
She sighed, and crept away.