Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!
Treat it gently—it is holy,
  For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not—unfold it never;
Let it droop there, furled forever,—
  For its people's hopes are fled!

I wish I were the little key
  That locks Love's Captive in,
And lets Him out to go and free
  A sinful heart from sin.

I wish I were the little bell
  That tinkles for the Host,
When God comes down each day to dwell
  With hearts He loves the most.

I wish I were the chalice fair,
  That holds the Blood of Love,
When every gleam lights holy prayer
  Upon its way above.

I wish I were the little flower
  So near the Host's sweet face,
Or like the light that half an hour
  Burns on the shrine of grace.