How oft in public meetings past,Where sense was not and talk was loud,We caught a glimpse of long white hairUpon the outskirts of the crowd;And then the tide of talk ebbed back,While here and there above the din,A workman cried, "Here's old Sir Jack,"And made a path to let him in.
Now Peter sitting at the gate,While crowds of souls are waiting there,Perchance upon the outer fringeMay catch a glimpse of silvery hair;While some rough soul who went from hereTo that great meeting in the blueWill cry aloud, "Here's old Sir Jack,"And make a path to let him through.