PUZZLED.
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 thatIdon’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 RevelationOf 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 motherSo long ago learned me to say.But now my poor memory’s failing,And often and often I findThat never a prayer from the Prayer-bookWill 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 neverLeave the old man’s name out of my prayer,But I ask the dear Lord to do for himWhatIwould do if I was there.Of course he can do it much better;But he knows, and he surely won’t mindThe 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 mansionsThat old man was certain to go:Andnowdo 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.
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 thatIdon’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 RevelationOf 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 motherSo long ago learned me to say.But now my poor memory’s failing,And often and often I findThat never a prayer from the Prayer-bookWill 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 neverLeave the old man’s name out of my prayer,But I ask the dear Lord to do for himWhatIwould do if I was there.Of course he can do it much better;But he knows, and he surely won’t mindThe 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 mansionsThat old man was certain to go:Andnowdo 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.
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 thatIdon’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 RevelationOf 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 motherSo long ago learned me to say.
But now my poor memory’s failing,And often and often I findThat never a prayer from the Prayer-bookWill 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 neverLeave the old man’s name out of my prayer,But I ask the dear Lord to do for himWhatIwould do if I was there.
Of course he can do it much better;But he knows, and he surely won’t mindThe 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 mansionsThat old man was certain to go:Andnowdo 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.