Then, kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
that thus they all shall meet in future days;
there, ever bask in uncreated rays,
no more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear;
together hymning their Creator’s praise,
in such society, yet still more dear;
while circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride,
in all the pomp of method, and of art;
when men display to congregations wide
devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart!
the Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert
the pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
but haply, in some cottage far apart,
may hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the soul,
and in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

 Robert Burns (1759-96), The Cotter’s Saturday Night (1786).