F. S. Flint

I HAVE not dipped my hand in the stoup,

Nor bent my knee towards the altar

Far away at the end of the nave.

The crucifix towers dimly above it.

Is this my God?

The Stations of the Cross

Are white on the dull-brown brickwork.

Poor naked cathedral!

One pillar alone is clothed

With green marble.

O gloom of the aisles,

And darkness made darker

By the candles burning in corners

Here and there

In front of the images!

Why am I moved?

Is this the house of my God?

The voices of the priests far-off

Near the altar

Have sound and no meaning as words;

But they fill the church with life

And peace and resignation.

The music of it enters my heart.

O God, you need me, I know,

Or why am I here, why am I?

You will not cast me off,

You cannot—O God, I say it

With a humble and desperate heart.

I am the least worthy atom of your Person,

But of you, or nothing at all.

And this woman,

Kneeling in her ragged clothes

Before the saint with the ten lighted candles,

Is happier than I:

Her worn and battered face

Is shining with certainty.

She is in heaven, and I—

My heart is twisted with sobs,

And my eyes are weeping.

And yet, as I leave the cathedral,

I do not dip my hand in the stoup.