London Churches

Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton (1809–1885)

I STOOD, one Sunday morning,

Before a large church door,

The congregation gathered,

And carriages a score,—

From one out stepped a lady

I oft had seen before.

Her hand was on a prayer-book,

And held a vinaigrette;

The sign of man’s redemption

Clear on the book was set,—

But above the cross there glistened

A golden Coronet.

For her the obsequious beadle

The inner door flung wide;

Lightly, as up a ball-room,

Her footsteps seemed to glide,—

There might be good thoughts in her,

For all her evil pride.

But after her a woman

Peeped wistfully within,

On whose wan face was graven

Life’s hardest discipline,—

The trace of the sad trinity

Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats were crowded

Where she could rest and pray;

With her worn garb contrasted

Each side in fair array,—

“God’s house holds no poor sinners,”

She sighed, and crept away.