'Bring him not here, where our sainted feet <br />Are treading the path to glory; <br />Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet <br />Repeats for <br />us <br />his story. <br />Go, take him where such things are done <br />(For he sat in the seat of the scorner), <br />To where they have room, for we have none,-- <br />To the little church down the corner.' <br /> <br />So spake the holy man of God, <br />Of another man, his brother, <br />Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod, <br />Had only asked that a Christian rite <br />Might be read above them by one whose light <br />Was, 'Brethren, love one another:' <br />Had only asked that a prayer be read <br />Ere his flesh went down to join the dead, <br />While his spirit looked with suppliant eyes, <br />Searching for God throughout the skies. <br />But the priest frowned 'No,' and his brow was bare <br />Of love in the sight of the mourner, <br />And they looked for Christ and found him--where? <br />In that little church round the corner. <br /> <br />Ah! well, God grant when, with aching feet, <br />We tread life's last few paces, <br />That we may hear some accents sweet, <br />And kiss, to the end, fond faces. <br />God grant that this tired flesh may rest <br />('Mid many a musing mourner), <br />While the sermon is preached and the rites are read <br />In no church where the heart of love is dead, <br />And the pastor's a pious prig at best, <br />But in some small nook where God's confessed,-- <br />Some little church round the corner.<br /><br />Anonymous Americas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-church-round-the-corner/
