THE OLD MAN IN THE STYLISH CHURCH.
By J. H. Yates
WELL, wife, I’ve been to church to-day—been to a stylish one,—
And seein’ you can’t go from home, I’ll tell you what was done;
You would have been surprised to see what I saw there to-day;
The sisters were fixed up so fine they hardly bowed to pray. I had on these coarse clothes of mine—not much the worse for wear—
But, then, they knew I wasn’t one they call a millionaire;
So they led the old man to a seat away back by the door;
’Twas bookless and uncushioned, a reserved seat for the poor. Pretty soon, in came a stranger with gold ring and clothing fine;
They led him to a cushioned seat far in advance of mine;
I thought that wasn’t exactly right to seat him up so near,
When he was young, and I was old, and very hard to hear. But, then, there’s no accountin’ for what some people do;
The finest clothing now-a-days, oft gets the finest pew;
But when we reach the blessed home, all undefiled by sin,
We’ll see wealth beggin’ at the gate while poverty goes in. I couldn’t hear the sermon, I sat so far away,
So, through the hours of service, I could only “watch and pray;”
Watch the doin’s of the Christians sitting near me, ’round about;
Pray that God would make them pure within as they were pure without. I doubt not there were wealthy sires in that religious fold.
Who went up from their dwellings like the Pharisee of old;
Then returned home from their worship with a head uplifted high,
To spurn the hungry from their door with naught to satisfy. Out, out! with such professions; they are doin’ more to-day
To stop the weary sinner from the gospel’s shinin’ way
Than all the books of infidels, than all that has been tried
Since Christ was born in Bethlehem—since Christ was crucified. How simple are the works of God, and yet how very grand—
The shells in ocean caverns—the flowers on the land—
He gilds the clouds of evenin’ with the gold-light from His throne,
Not for the rich man only; not for the poor alone. Then why should man look down on man, because of lack of gold?
Why seat him in the poorest pew because his clothes are old?
A heart with noble motives—a heart that God has blest—
May be beatin’ Heaven’s music ’neath that faded coat and vest. I’m old—I may be childish—but I love simplicity;
I love to see it shinin’ in a Christian’s piety;
Jesus told us in His sermons, in Judea’s mountains wild,
He that wants to go to Heaven must be like a little child. Our heads are growin’ gray, dear wife—our hearts are beatin’ slow—
In a little while the Master will call for us to go;
When we reach the pearly gateways, and look in with joyful eyes,
We’ll see no stylish worship in the temple of the skies.
—J. H. Yates.