The True Church

I ASKED a holy man one day,
“ Where is the one true church, I pray ? ”

“ Go round the world,” said he, “ and sea ch:
No man hath found the one true church.”

I pointed to a spire, cross-crowned.
“ The church is false !” he cried, and frowned.

But, murmuring he had told me wrong,
I pointed to the entering throng.

He answered, “ If a church be true,
It hath not many, but a few.”

Around the font the people pressed,
And crossed themselves from brow to breast.

“ A cross ! ” he cried, " writ on the brow
In water !—Is it Christ’s? — look thou !

“ Each forehead, frowning, sheds it off:
Christ’s cross abides through scowl and scoff.”

Then, looking through the open door,
We saw men kneeling on the floor;

Faint candles, by the daylight dimmed,—
Like wicks the foolish virgins trimmed;

Fair statues of the saints, as white
As now their robes are, in God’s light;

Sun-ladders, dropped aslant, all gold,—
Like stairs the angels trod of old.

Around, above, from nave to roof,
He gazed, and said, in sad reproof, —

“ Alas! who is it understands
God’s temple is not made with hands ? ”

— We walked along a shaded way,
Beneath the apple-blooms of May,

And came upon a church whose dome
Bore still the cross, but not for Rome.

We brushed a cobweb from a pane,
And gazed within the sacred fane

“ Do prayers,” he asked, “ the more avail,
If murmured night an altar-rail ?

“ Does water sprinkled from a bowl
Wash any sin from any soul ?

“ Do tongues that taste the bread and wine
Speak truer after, by that sign ?

‘‘ The very priest, in gown and bands,
Hath lying lips and guilty hands !”

“ He speaks no error,” answered I;
“ He says the living all shall die,

“ The dead all rise ; and both are true ;
Both wholesome doctrines, — old, not new.”

My friend returned, “ He aims a blow
To strike the sins of long ago, —

“ Yet shields, the while, with studied phrase,
The evil present in these days.

“ Doth God in heaven impute no crime
To prophets who belie their time ? ”

— We turned away among the tombs :
The bees were in the clover-blooms ;

The crickets leaped to let us pass;
And God’s sweet breath was on the grass.

We spelled the legends on the stones :
The graves were full of martyrs’ bones,—

Of bodies which the rack once brake
In witness for the dear Lord's sake, —

Of ashes gathered from the pyres
Of saints whose souls fled up through fires.

I heard him murmur, as we passed,
“ Thus won they all the crown at last;

“ Which now men lose, through looking back
To find it at the stake and rack :

“ The rack and stake have gathered grime :
God’s touchstone is the passing time.”

— Just then, amid some olive-sprays,
Two orioles perched, and piped their lays,

Until the gold beneath their throats
Shook molten in their mellow notes.

Then, pealing from the church, a psalm
Rolled forth upon the outer calm.

“ Both choirs,” said I, “ are in accord ;
For both give worship to the Lord.”

Said he, “ The tree-top song, I fear,
Fled first and straightest to God’s ear.

“ If men bind other men in chains,
Then chant, doth God accept the strains ?

“ Do loud-lipped hymns His ear allure ? —
God hates the church that harms the poor !

— Then rose a meeting-house in view,
Of bleached and weather-beaten hue,

Where, plain of garb and pure of heart,
Men kept the church and world apart,

And sat in waiting for the light
That dawns upon the inner sight;

Nor did they vex the silent air
With any sound of hymn or prayer ;

But on their lips God’s hand was pressed,
And each man kissed it and was blessed.

I asked, “ Is this the true church, then ? ”
“Nay,” answered he, “a sect of men :

“ And sects that lock their doors in pride
Shut God and half His saints outside.

“ The gates of heaven, the Scriptures say,
Stand open wide by night and day:

“ Whoso shall enter hath no need
To walk by either church or creed :

“ The false church leadeth men astray;
The true church showeth men the way.”

— Whereat I still more eager grew
To shun the false and find the true ;

And, naming all the creeds, I sought
What truth, or lie, or both, they taught:

Thus, — “ Augustine — had he a fault ? ”
My friend looked up to yon blue vault,

And cried, "Behold ! can one man’s eyes
Bound all the vision of the skies ? ”

I said, “ The circle is too wide.”
“ God’s truth is wider,” he replied ;

“And Augustine, on bended knee,
Saw just the little he could see ;

“ So Luther sought with eyes and heart,
1 et caught the glory but in part;

“ So Calvin opened wide his soul,
Yet could not comprehend the whole :

“ Not Luther, Calvin, Augustine,
Saw half the vision I have seen ! ”

— Then grew within me a desire
That kindled like a flame of fire.

I looked upon his reverent brow,
Entreating, “ Tell me, who art thou ? ”

When, by the light that filled the place,
I knew it was the Lord’s own face !

Through all my blood a rapture stole
That filled my body and my soul.

I was a sinner and afraid :
I bowed me in the dust and prayed; — ,

“ O Christ the Lord ! end Thou my search,
And lead me to the one true church ! ”

Then spake He, not as man may speak:
“ The one true church thou shalt not seek ;

“ Behold, it is enough,” He said,
“ To find the one true Christ, its Head!”

Then straight He vanished from my sight,
And left me standing in the light.