Let me find honey, though upon a road,
And prize the prison, where my keeper’s God:
Newgate or hell were heaven if Christ were there–
He made the stable so, and sepulchre.
Indeed, the place did for your presence call;
Prisons do want perfuming most of all.
Thanks to the bishop and his good lord mayor,
Who turned the den of thieves into a house of prayer;
And may some thief by you converted be,
Like him who suffered in Christ’s company.
by Robert Wilde