Tall, bleak, austere, the mighty buildings loom;
Hard, bare and dull the grimy city street.
Here by the church is found a little room
Roofed with blue sky and with green turf made sweet.
Surely the Master of this house would smile
Seeing the children on His grass at play,
Seeing the mothers rest a little while
Out of the turmoil of the busy day.
Soon will he ask, “Where are the children gone:
They who should share this pleasant, sacred place?
No little feet are treading this soft lawn,
Here shines no glory from a little face.”
Ye in whose trust this Christian church is left,
Think ye that thus ye serve your Master mild?
None by His will are of this home bereft;
They love Him not who wrong a little child.