In shining day Saint Peter's church
Was beautiful to spy,
An orange cross upon her dome
Did pierce the azure sky.
Atop a mount stood there the church
Its walls a flaming gold,
Its windows tall were crimson red
Its architecture old.
Now warm July, a northern wind
By mount and vale it flew,
Eccentric, wild, untamed, so fierce,
Yet leisurely it blew.
A narrow road wound up the mount
Decked with autumnal trees,
Of scarlet-yellow nodding leaves
Each one the next to kiss.
The sun was orange in the West
So picturesque to see,
And tepid glowed the fiery ball
Above the grassy lea.
Two shaded doves beneath it flew
That winged for home to rest,
Until at last they reached the cross
Where hung their cushioned nest.
An old sexton had tolled the bell
And left the doors ajar,
The brass gates of Saint Peter's church
For dwellers near and far.
Vanity Town in Easteinten
Professed lip piety,
It teemed with merchants and with goods
As busy as a bee.
The time for prayers having come
Two men arrived on foot,
The one was short, the other bald,
Both wore a dusty boot.
The lean short man did stand aloof
His robes portrayed him Jew,
He much bemoaned his sinfulness
His words were true and few.
The balding man began to pray
Exalting self and pelf,
No peace was found within his soul
Who prayed much to himself.
His creed was long much like his drape
He was a Pharisee,
And though he fasted twice a week
A hypocrite was he.
The little man left justified
With him the Lord was glad,
For while for mercy he did cry
A contrite heart he had.
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