Against the oaken pew he leant,
A child of summers three or four,
And smiled to see each stained-glass saint
Cast by the sunlight on the floor.

He wondered why the folk should look
So sad and stern on either hand.
His thoughts were wandering from the book,
The prayers he could not understand.

Yet, when the organ's thunder filled
The dim-lit aisles in praise and prayer,
Sweetly his baby treble trilled,
Happiest of all who worshipped there.

The sunshine made his heart rejoice;
And who shall chide him? Who declare
God did not hear the childish voice
That sang because His world was fair?