Slow to church, where the biglads skulk,
Their knuckles hard as pews,
Slow to church, where the choirboys sulk,
In the shadow of the yews.
Slow to church, where the big bell rings
To summon all to prayer,
Slow to church, where the warm breath sings
And I can only stare.
Slow to church, where the nailed man lives,
Such sorrow in his gaze,
Slow to church, where the stained glass gives
Pale colour to our praise.
But fast away, o fast away
From a world I cannot share,
Into the pure, clean light of day
And the innocence of air.