St. Peter stood guard at the golden gate With a solemn mien and an 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 scraggy 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 genial smile. The choirs in the distance the echoes woke And the man kept still while the woman spoke: "Oh, thou who guardest the gate," said she, "We two come 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 is nothing from heaven to bar me out; I have been to meetings three times a week, And almost always I'd rise and speak. I've told the sinners about the day When they'd repent their evil way; I have told my neighbors, I have told them 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 and 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 to me; But my old man, I regret to say, Hasn't walked exactly the narrow way-- He smokes and he swears, and grave faults he's got, And I don't know whether he will 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 a 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? By my grim gospel I know 'tis so That the unrepentant must fry below; But isn't there some way that 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 relation can amble through. And say, St. Peter, it seems to me This gate isn't kept as it ought to be; You ought to stand by that 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 narrower, cut straight across.