Adeline Treadwell (Parsons) Lunt

IN some great silent church I love to sit

Before the little flock is gathered in,

Before the choristers their chants begin,

Or yet the white-robed priest has entered it;

Where Peace—a hovering angel—seems to flit,

Beyond the turmoil of the world’s tired din,

Beyond the sight of worldliness and sin,

And Silence breathes its music exquisite.

Here Meditation finds its purest place,

And Sorrow lingers, feeling comfort sure,

And even Pleasure pauses to win grace

From these delightsome courts and pavements pure.

So in the silent church I love to wait,

Remembering this, Heaven opens here its gate.