Poem by James Russell Lowell

The Church

                  I.

  I love the rites of England's church;
    I love to hear and see
  The priest and people reading slow
    The solemn Litany;
  I love to hear the glorious swell
    Of chanted psalm and prayer,
  And the deep organ's bursting heart,
    Throb through the shivering air.

                II.

  Chants, that a thousand years have heard,
    I love to hear again,
  For visions of the olden time
    Are wakened by the strain;
  With gorgeous hues the window-glass
    Seems suddenly to glow,
  And rich and red the streams of light
    Down through the chancel flow.

                III.

  And then I murmur, "Surely God
    Delighteth here to dwell;
  This is the temple of his Son
    Whom he doth love so well;"
  But, when I hear the creed which saith,
    This church alone is His,
  I feel within my soul that He
    Hath purer shrines than this.

                 IV.

  For his is not the builded church,
    Nor organ-shaken dome;
  In every thing that lovely is
    He loves and hath his home;
  And most in soul that loveth well
    All things which he hath made,
  Knowing no creed but simple faith
    That may not be gainsaid.

                  V.

  His church is universal Love,
    And whoso dwells therein
  Shall need no customed sacrifice
    To wash away his sin;
  And music in its aisles shall swell,
    Of lives upright and true,
  Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps
    Down-quivering through the blue.

                VI.

  They shall not ask a litany,
    The souls that worship there,
  But every look shall be a hymn,
    And every word a prayer;
  Their service shall be written bright
    In calm and holy eyes,
  And every day from fragrant hearts
    Fit incense shall arise.

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