English poem
The Sky Pilot
by Douglas Malloch (1877–1938)
Oh, that I had in the wilderness a lodging place of wayfaring men.--Jeremiah IX:2.
By the wall of the busy city, In the midst of the market place, Ye have lifted on high a temple, Ye have builded a house of grace. Amber and red the windows, Marble and tile the floor-- But I weep for a thousand pilgrims far Who never have seen the door.
Gorgeous the gilded altar, Pleasant the cushioned pew, Thrilling the chorused music Ringing the cloister through, Wonderful thing the sermon, Grilling the creeds absurd-- But I weep for a thousand woodsmen strong Who never have known the Word.
Build me no mighty temple, Build me no jeweled shrine-- Build me a house of worship Under the solemn pine. I’ll speak from a rough-hewn pulpit To men of a rough-hewn race; And, with God’s great help, I will bring them yet With the Master face to face!