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