The Open Door – a poem

The Open Door, or The Ever Open Door as our Children's Shelter was often termed, was the inspiration for the title of our recent book written by Andrew Simpson which documents our 150 year history. 

There are many stories of how unfortunate children forced to wander and sleep out on the streets in the twilight hours came across the Shelter. The charity's rhetoric often bore a providential tone, suggesting that God had guided these poor young people to the Shelter's red lamp which stood outside as a beacon of salvation.

The Children's Haven, February 1898

The following poem was originally published in The Christian Worker and Missionary Record, Vol. 1, No. 25 (23 June 1887). Note the dialect:

You know the infirmary pavement, with its broad expanse of stone, 

With the cupola clock overhead, and the statutes grim and lone, 

Crowded and bustling at midday, bright in the evening's glare, 

But on this winter midnight, rain-swept, gloomy and bare. 

Twelve from the cupola clock, twelve from the clocks all round, 

And the lingering boom from Albert Square, with its sad, far-reaching sound, 

Not a soul left in the lonely street, all away to shelter and bed, 

And the living, throbbing city, seems like a city dead. 

Tramp! 'tis the prying policeman, searching with patient look— 

Turning the glare of his lamp on each secret corner and nook, 

As if on this winter midnight, with the rain-rush teeming down, 

Aught, with the life left in it, would stop on the flags and drown. 

Ha! what is that then yonder. —crouched on the steps of stone? 

A lone child, ragged and footbare, drenched to the very bone, 

Grasping a pulpy parcel, smeared with the roadway mire, 

Everything cold about him, save two little eyes of fire. 

"None o' yer tricks now, youngster! Why are yer lurkin' here? 

Tell us yer tale straightforred!" (A sob, and a glance of fear.) 

The child holds out the parcel; the hand is covered with blood; 

"Slipped from the—Longsight car, sir; — 

p-papers fell I' the mud."

"Father?"—"Ain’t got none."—"Mother?" —"I reckon as mother’s dead." 

(Policeman thinks of his nestlings, safe with their mother in bed.) 

"Nothin' to get me a lodgin'"—(he shivered where he stood.) 

"Paid all my brass for the 'specials,' and papers fell I' the mud." 

"Come!" says the sturdy policeman, and takes the child by the arm. 

"Oh please don't run me in, sir; I hasn't done no harm; 

'Tis gospel truth as I've told you; I isn't a prig or a liar!" 

"Nay, come with me, my laddie, I'se git thee some food and a fire!" 

"Past the hotel over yonder, and just a street before, 

There's a place where I'll find thee a lodgin'; they calls it ‘the open door’; 

There's a few good folks as keeps it just for sich lads as thee, — 

See—there it is; right before thee; go in for thee-sen and see?” 

Bliss for the poor starved orphan! the door stands open wide, 

It leads to a cheerful welcome, the glow of a bright fireside; 

The wounded hand washed gently, and bound with tender care, 

Dry clothes, and a touch like mother's to part the curly hair; 

Supper that seems like nectar, a verse from the Holy Word, 

Ten words of a prayer as welcome THERE, as the grandest litany heard; 

A snug little berth and pillow to rest the weary head, 

And God's sweet gift of slumber falls on that lowly bed. 

* * * * * * * 

Policeman's wife next morning told me this simple tale: 

(Glanced at her own two youngsters, mother-clad, ruddy, and hale), 

Made my hand go to my pocket, to find in its scanty store, 

Some little wedge of silver to help with "the open door."

* * * * * * * 

Oh! type of the door of mercy, for ever open and free, 

Of the dear Lord's word of welcome, the loving "Come unto me!"

For even the vilest sinner, desolate, guilt-stained, poor, 

May come to the house of mercy, and pass through "the open door."

Oh! type of the heavenly city, that stands in the land of light, 

Where the pain can never enter, and the wrong is all set right; 

For the gates of that blessed city are shut not, night or day; 

And the ransomed people enter, and they that enter stay. 

E. Hewlett 

St. Paul’s Rectory, 

Brunswick Street, Manchester.