I I DO not gamble much on Rerligion, Nor show a sanctermonious look Down here under my hat when they mention The Bible—that spiritu’l book—What’s a guide-board ter every stray traveler In the pathway leadin’ ter God; I do not clasp my hands in dervotion, And at the church minister nod,— Extollin’ his favorite utterances; Nor jine in the fervent “Amen,” That the folks in the meetin’ may think me One of them most pious laymen. Nor go down on my marrers durin’ pr’ar, Raise my eyes ter Heaven and cry Ter God ter pour out His Holy Spirit, And bless me with grace from on High! In meetin’ I do not yell out “Glory!” “Bless the Lord who died for sinners!” “Come down, dear Jesus; I’ll clasp ye right here!” Nor ’nvite the parson ter dinners. I’ve sarch’d from Gen’ses ter Reverlation For a precerdent, but I can’t Find that Christ and His Erpostles have spent The Sabbath in boisterous rant! The knees of my Sabbath mornin’ trousers May not show same ermount of war’ As those of Deacon Horatio Sparling, Who’s worn holes in his’n at pra’r. I may not show the white of my eyes, like The Deacon who looks for rerward For countin’ the number of the rarfters, When they pars the cup of the Lord! I am not in the habit of tellin’ Sinners they’ll be left in the lurch, In the last great day when Jerhover comes, If thar not members of the church! Or skeerin’ ’em with brimstone and fire, And the vengeance of thar Maker, If they turn thar backs on the Pascal Lamb, And fail ter be a pertaker! I do not prerclaim ter all my neighbors Who’ve not bow’d down in corntrition And jin’d the meetin’, that they’ve cartenly A through ticket ter perdition! That when the Lord shall come in His glory, If thar not as pure as snow, He will hurl His hot bolts of wrath at ’em, And tell ’em ter git up and go! That when the ran’som’d have enter’d in, With the Lord ter thar final rest In Heaven, and have put on the white robes Emblermatical of the Blest— The guilty sinner will be shunted orf Ter lakes of sul-furious fires Whar murderers, burgulars and drunkards Pursue thar unlicens’d desires. It is true I do not wrench from the poor Part of the proceeds of thar sweat, That my name may look large on subscriptions, And that I may complerments get! And be known as a great pherlanterpist When they pars the corlection plate, That receives money wrung from a brother, Or filch’d from his orphan’s erstate! O, no! I will freely own up ter it: This sort of Rerligion don’t meet My views of what’s right—what Jesus rerquires Of all what come near ter His seat. My idea of Christianity Is of quite a different type, And all them supercillious ranters Who think for the Harvest thar ripe, That, through thar pra’r and thar false prerfession, They have been cleans’d of all thar sin, Will find, when they apply for admission, They have a slim chance ter get in! My Rerligion is not a prerfession That “I am holier than thou!” That a man can not serve his Creator If he don’t make a saintly bow! The follerers of the Blessed Jesus, Who war cradl’d in a menger, Will strive ter love thar neighbor as themselves, And gladden the lonely strenger— With kindnesses what go home ter the heart In hour of his greatest need, And act the part of the Sermaritan, Of whom we all derlight ter read. I may be a sinner, and I doubt not Have done heaps of things that war wrong; But I love the example of the Lord, And in secret pour out in song— My acknolergements for His great bounty; And I strive ter keep His commands, What war written on tablets by Moses, When Jerhover guided his hands! In them, Commandments ye get the essence Of the Truth as given ter man; And if a poor sinner lives up ter ’em, And labors the best that he can— No matter if he is out of the church, Whar the wicked ones are cryin’ For mercy! He’ll not be with the Deacon Blubb’rin’ at the gates of Zion! _ |
|
