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.”