The Shrine by Digby Mackworth-Dolben

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Sep 10, 1908

The Shrine

By Digby Mackworth-Dolben

There is a shrine whose golden gate Was opened by the hand of God; It stands serene, inviolate, Though millions have its pavement trod, As fresh as when the first sunrise Awoke the lark in Paradise.

'Tis compassed with the dust and toil Of common days, yet should there fall A single speck, a single soil, Upon the whiteness of its wall, The angels' tears in tender rain Would make the temple theirs again.

Without, the world is tired and old, But once within the enchanted door, The mists of time are backward rolled, And creeds and ages are no more, But all the human-hearted meet In one communion vast and sweet.

I enter; all is simply fair, Nor incense clouds, nor carven throne, But in the fragrant morning air A gentle lady sits alone; My mother— ah! whom should I see Within, save ever only thee? — Digby Mackworth-Dolben.