The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door;

He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor;

He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through

The long isle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.

I wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring;

The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!"

The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled,

Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire;

I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir,

And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall;

Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more;

I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;

I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form,

And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm.

The prechen'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said;

I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;

He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye

Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth;

It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth;

'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed;

'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews;

He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews;

And—though I can't see very well—I saw the falling tear

That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near.

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place;