I pointed to a spire, cross-crowned.
"The church is false!" he cried, and frowned.
But, murmuring he had told me wrong,
I pointed to the entering throng.
He answered, "If a church be true,
It hath not many, but a few."
Around the font the people pressed,
And crossed themselves from brow to breast.
"A cross!" he cried, "writ on the brow
In water!—is it Christ's?—look thou!
"Each forehead, frowning, sheds it off:
Christ's cross abides through scowl and scoff."
Then, looking through the open door,
We saw men kneeling on the floor;
Faint candles, by the daylight dimmed,—
Like wicks the foolish virgins trimmed;
Fair statues of the saints, as white
As now their robes are, in God's light;
Sun-ladders, dropped aslant, all gold,—
Like stairs the angels trod of old.