IN A FASHIONABLE CHURCH.
The air is faint, yet still the crowds press in;
With stir of silks and under-flow of talk
That falls from lips of ladies as they walk,
Ere yet the dainty service doth begin:
Ah me! the very organ’s glorious din
Is tuned to pliant trimness in its place.
And over all a sweet melodious grace
Floats with the incense-stream good souls to win!
O God, that spak’st of old from Sinai’s brow!
And Thou that laid’st the tempest with a word!
Is this Thy worship? Come amongst us now
With all Thy thunders, if Thou wouldst be heard.
So tyrannous is this weight of pageantry,
Almost, we cry, “Give back Gethsemane!”