Together kneeling, night and day, Thou, for my sake, at Allah's shrine, And I--at any God's for thine.

So shall they build me altars in their zeal, Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel: Where faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, Written in blood--and Bigotry may swell The sail he spreads for Heav'n with blasts from hell!

Man always worships something; always he sees the Infinite shadowed forth in something finite; and indeed can and must so see it in any finite thing, once tempt him well to fix his eyes thereon.

Every man becomes the image of the God he adores.
He whose worship is directed to a dead thing becomes dead.
He who loves corruption rots.
He who loves a shadow becomes, himself, a shadow.
He who loves things that must perish lives in dread of their perishing.

Worship is transcendent wonder.

Intend some fear; Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit; And look you get a prayer book in your hand And stand between two churchmen, good my lord, For on that ground I'll make a holy descant; And be not easily won to our requests.