A clergyman who longed to trace
Amid his flock a work of grace,
And mourned because, he knew not why,
Yon fleece kept wet while his kept dry,
While thinking what he could do more
Heard someone rapping at the door,
And opening it, there met his view
A dear old brother whom he knew,
Who had got down by worldly blows
From wealth to peddling castoff clothes.
"Come in, my brother." said the pastor,
"Perhaps my trouble you can master,
For since the summer you withdrew,
My converts have been very few."
"I can," the peddler said, "unroll
Something, perchance, to ease your soul,
And to cut short all fulsome speeches,
Bring me a pair of your old breeches."
The clothes were brought, the peddler gazed,
And said, "No longer be amazed.
The gloss upon this cloth is such,
I think, perhaps, you sit too much
Building air castles, bright and and gay,
Which Satan loves to blow away.
And here behold, as I am born,
The nap from neither knee is worn;
He who would great revivals see
Must wear his pants out on the knee,
For such the lever prayer supplies.
When pastors kneel, their churches rise."
