St. Bartholomew’s On The Hill

Bartholomew, my brother, I like your roomy church; I like your way of leaving No sinners in the lurch. I wish the world were wealthy In ministers like you, When at the lovely August You give the blessed dew. I love your rambling Abbey, So long ago begun, Whose choirs are in the tree-tops, Whose censor is the sun. Its windows are the morning; Its rafters are the stars; The fog-banks float like incense Up from its purple floors. And where the ruddy apples Make lamps in the green gloom, The flowers in congregation Are never pressed for room; But in your hillside chapel, Gay with its gorgeous paints, They bow before the Presence,⁠— Sweet, merry little saints.