Behind a candelabra droops
A crucifix of burnished gold,
A ray of dancing sunbeams swoops
Across the cobwebbed arches old.
Here may the sick, the bleeding one
Nurture his wounds and calm his fears.
Here when their joy in life is done
Poor, crumbling men gulp salty tears.
And knotted fingers counting beads,
And prayers half-whispered never cease.