A QUIET PRAYER
Down in the corner of a pew,
The nearest to the door,
An old man sat in silent awe
A full half hour or more.
I thought perhaps he needed help,
Or sought some priest to find,
His anxious movements ill-concealed
The shyness of his kind.
I nearer drew and questioned him,
If I might serve his need.
“No, no,” he said, “I look around
Because I cannot read.
“I always come at this same hour,
After my work is done,
And here I sit and look at Him,
Until the set of sun.
“I cannot make a lengthy prayer,
I simply say, ‘Here’s John!’
But then the Master talks to me;
Too soon the hour is gone.”
“Dear Lord,” I prayed beside the man,
“I have grown wise to-day,
The quiet prayer is worthiest,
That hearkens what You say.”
Humbly I bent me to the floor,
The altar light gleamed on,
“Speak Lord,” I cried within my soul,
“Here is another John.”