I suppose it isn’t wondered
Capped in silence, the steeple of
Those many prayers:
When saints fall down from glass.

Rosy reds have fainted since
And greens been curdled, but I
Wonder who shakes the buttress
After preaching, singing: live!

And should the whistled wind
Confess whereto they went and
Too where they have yet to go,
We would arouse, and follow them!

But windows cut the lips of God
To basting silence and the hiss
Of hymns; doors entomb the
Preacher and the preached.

‘Til at the font, our celebrations
Pass: crossing heart and mind
And passing on, as faithful due;
To fast, degraded live.

And if we stopped and hushed
To hear the wind, for sure it
Would have died; Christ does
Not wait evermore for us;

While saints have once and always
Tried.