St. Peter at the Gate
St. Peter stood guard at the
golden gate,
With a solemn mien and air
sedate,
When up to the top of the golden
stair
A man and a woman ascending
there,
Applied for admission.
They came and stood
Before St. Peter, so great
and good,
In hopes the City of Peace
to win,
And asked St. Peter to let
them in.
The woman was tall, and lank,
and thin,
With a scraggly beardlet upon
her chin,
The man was short, and thick
and stout,
His stomach was built so it
rounded out,
His face was pleasant and all
the while
He wore a kindly and pleasant
smile.
The choirs in the distance
the echoes awoke,
The man kept still while the
woman spoke.
"Oh, thou, who guards the gate,"
said she,
"We two came hither beseeching
thee
To let us enter the Heavenly
land
And play our harps with the
angel band.
Of me, St. Peter, there is
no doubt,
There's nothing from Heaven
to bar me out,
I've been to meeting three
times a week,
And almost always I'd rise
and speak.
"I've told the sinners about
the day
When they'd repent of their
evil way;
I've told my neighbors - -
I've told 'em all
"Bout Adam and Eve, and the
Primal Fall;
I've shown them what they'd
have to do
If they'd pass in with the
chosen few;
I've marked their path of duty
clear - -
Laid out the plan for their
whole career.
"I've talked to 'em loud and
long,
For my lungs are good, and
my voice is strong.
So, good St. Peter, you'll
clearly see
The gate of Heaven is open
for me;
But my old man, I regret to
say,
Hasn't walked in exactly the
narrow way,
He smokes and he swears
And grave faults he's got,
And I don't know whether he'll
pass or not.
He never would pray with an
earnest vim
Or go to revival or join in
a hymn,
So I had to leave him in sorrow
there
While I, with the chosen, united
in prayer,
He ate what the pantry chanced
to afford,
While I in my purity, sang
to the Lord;
And if cucumbers were all he
got
It's chance if he merited them
or not.
But oh, St. Peter, I love him
so,
To the pleasures of Heaven
please let him go.
I've done enough; a saint I've
been,
won't that atone? Can't you
let him in?
But my grim gospel I know 'tis
so
That the unrepentant must try
below.
But isn't there some way you
can see
That he may enter who's dear
to me?
"It's a narrow gospel by which
I pray,
But the chosen expect to find
some way
Of coaxing, or fooling, or
bribing you,
So that their relations can
amble through;
And, say, St. Peter, it seems
to me
The gate isn't kept as it ought
to be.
You ought to stand right by
the opening there,
And never sit down in that
easy chair.
"And say, St. Peter, my sight
is dimmed, but
I don't like the way your whiskers
are trimmed.
They're cut too wide and outward
toss,
They'd look better narrow,
cut straight across.
Well, we must be going, our
crown to win,
So open, St. Peter, and we'll
pass in."
St. Peter sat quiet and stroked
his staff,
But in spite of his office,
he had to laugh,
Then said with a fiery gleam
in his eye:
"Who's tending this gateway, you or I?"
And then he arose in his stature
tall,
And pressed a button upon the
wall,
And said to an imp, who came
all aglow,
"Escort this woman to the regions
below."
The man stood still as a piece
of stone - -
Stood sadly, gloomy, there
alone.
A lifelong settled idea he
had
That his wife was good and
he was bad;
He thought if the woman went
down below
That he would certainly have
to go;
That if she went to the regions
dim
There wasn't a ghost of a show
for him.
Slowly he turned, by habit
bent,
To follow wherever the woman
went.
St. Peter, standing on duty
there,
Observed that the top of his
head was bare.
He called the gentleman back,
and said;
"Friend, how long have you
been wed?"
"Thirty years" (with a heavy
sigh),
And then he thoughtfully added,
"Why?"
St. Peter was silent.
With head bent down,
He raised his hand and scratched
his crown.
Then, seeming a different thought
to take,
Slowly, half to himself he
spake:
"Thirty years with that woman there?
No wonder the man hasn't any
hair.
Swearing is wicked; smoking's
not good;
He smoked and swore - - I should
think he would.
"Thirty years with that tongue
so sharp?
Oh, Angel Gabriel, give him
a harp,
A jeweled harp with a golden
string.
Good sir, pass in where the
angels sing.
Gabriel give him a seat alone
- -
One with a cushion - - up near
the throne.
Call up some angels to play
their best;
Let him enjoy the music - -
and rest.
"See that on the finest ambrosia
he feeds;
He's had about all the hell
he needs,
It isn't just hardly the thing
to do - -
To roast him on earth and the
future too."
They gave him a harp with golden
strings,
A glittering robe and a pair
of wings,
And he said, as he entered
the Realm of Day:
"Well, this beats cucumbers,
anyway."
And so the Scriptures had come
to pass - -
"The last shall be first and
the first shall be last."
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