Classic Poem

Holy is the sick man's room.
Temper'd air, and curtain'd gloom,
Measured steps, and tones as mild
As the breath of new-born child,
Postures lowly, waitings still,
Looks subdued to duty's will,
Reverent, thoughtful, grave and sweet:
These to wait on Christ are meet.
These may kneel where He lies low,
In His members suffering woe.
Nor in other discipline
Train we hearts that to His shrine
May unblamed draw near, and be
With His favour'd two and three.
Therefore in its silent gloom
Holy is the sick man's room.