You ask me whether I'm High Church,
You ask me whether I'm Low:
I wish you'd tell the difference,
For I'm sure that I don't know.
I'm just a plain old body,
And my brain works pretty slow;
So I don't know whether I'm High Church,
And I don't know whether I'm Low.
I'm trying to be a Christian,
In the plain, old-fashioned way,
Laid down in my mother's Bible,
And I read it every day,—
Our blessed Lord's life in the Gospels,
Or a comforting Psalm of old,
Or a bit from the Revelation
Of the city whose streets are gold.
Then I pray,—why, I'm generally praying,
Though I don't always kneel or speak out,
But I ask the dear Lord, and keep asking,
Till I fear he is all tired out;
A piece of the Litany sometimes,
The Collect, perhaps, for the day,
Or a scrap of a prayer that my mother
So long ago learned me to say.
But now my poor memory's failing,
And often and often I find
That never a prayer from the Prayer-book
Will seem to come into my mind.
But I know what I want, and I ask it,
And I make up the words as I go:
Do you think that shows I ain't High Church?
Do you think that it means I am Low?
My blessed old husband has left me,
'Tis years since God took him away:
I know he is safe, well, and happy,
And yet, when I kneel down to pray,
Perhaps it is wrong, but I never
Leave the old man's name out of my prayer,
But I ask the dear Lord to do for him
What I would do if I was there.
Of course he can do it much better;
But he knows, and he surely won't mind
The worry about her old husband,
Of the old woman left here behind.
So I pray and I pray for the old man,
And I'm sure that I shall till I die;
So maybe that proves I ain't Low Church,
And maybe it shows I am High.
My old father was never a Churchman,
But a Scotch Presbyterian saint:
Still his white head is shining in heaven,
I don't care who says that it ain't;
To one of our blessed Lord's mansions
That old man was certain to go:
And now do you think I am High Church?
Are you sure that I ain't pretty Low?
I tell you, it's all just a muddle,
Too much for a body like me;
I'll wait till I join my old husband,
And then we shall see what we'll see.
Don't ask me again, if you please, sir,
For really it worries me so;
And I don't know whether I'm High Church,
And I don't know whether I'm Low.