'Twas a stylish congregation; why, you could see they'd been around. They had the biggest pipe organ of any church in town. And over in the corner sat Old Brother Ira, who insisted every Sunday on singing in the choir. The choir stormed and blustered, for Brother Ira sang too slow and he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago. At last the storm cloud burst, and the church was told in vine that Brother Ira must stop his singing or the choir was going to resign!

So, the Pastor called into the vestry room some influential members, who subscribed more than they paid. And after asking God's guidance in a printed prayer or two, they put their heads together to decide just what to do. They thought and debated and suggested until at last dear Brother York, who last winter made a million in the sudden rise of pork, rose and moved that committee wait at once on Brother Ira and proceed to rake him widely for messing up the choir.

So, one afternoon at four, three men in stylish carriage rode up to Ira's door. They found the choir's trouble sitting there in an old armchair-- the summer's golden sunbeam lay upon his snow-white hair. He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a voice soft and low. The angels understood him; that's all he cared to know.

Said York, "We're here, dear Brother, with the vester's accusations, to discuss a little matter that upsets the congregation. Now, we don't want any singing except for what we've bought. The newest tunes are all arranged, the old ones stand for nought. So we've decided, are you listening Brother Ira? You must stop your singing; you're messing up our choir."

The old man raised his head, a sign that he did hear, and on his cheek the three men caught the glitter of a tear. His feeble hand pushed back the locks as white as silky snow, and he answered the committee in a voice soft and low. "I've sung the songs of David nearly eighty years," said he. "They've been my staff and comfort all along life's dreary way. I'm sorry if I've disturbed the choir; I guess I was doing wrong. But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song. I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, in that far-off heavenly mansion, where my Master I shall meet, I wonder if I should try to sing the songs of God up higher, I wonder if they'll church me for singing in Heaven's choir."

Silence filled the room, the old man bowed his head. The carriage rattled back to town, but Brother Ira was dead. Oh, the choir missed him for awhile, but soon he was forgotten. A few church members watched the door, but the old man entered not. And far away his voice is sweet, where he sings his heart's desire, where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs.

‘Twas a stylish congregation; why, you could see they’d been around. They had the biggest pipe organ of any church in town. And over in the corner sat Old Brother Ira, who insisted every Sunday on singing in the choir. The choir stormed and blustered, for Brother Ira sang yoo slow and he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago. At last the storm cloud burst, and the church was told in vine that Brother Ira must stop his singing or the choir was going to resign! So, the Pastor called into the vestry room some influential members, who subscribed more than they paid. And after asking God’s guidance in a printed prayer or two, they put their heads together to decide just what to do. They thought and debated and suggested until at last dear Brother York, who last winter made a million in the sudden rise of pork, rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Ira and proceed to rake him widely for messing up the choir. So, one afternoon at four, three men in stylish carriage rode up to Ira’s door. They found the choir’s trouble sitting there in an old armchair-- the summer’s golden sunbeam lay upon his snow-white hair. He was singing “Rock of Ages” in a voice soft and low. The angels understood him; that’s all he cared to know. Said York, “We’re here, dear Brother, with the vester’s accusations, to discuss a little matter that upsets the congregation. Now, we don’t want any singing except for what we’ve brought. The newest tunes are all arranged, the old ones stand for nought. So we’ve decided, are you listening, Brother Ira? You must stop your singing; you’re messing up our choir.” The old man raised his head, a sign that he did hear, and on his cheek the three men caught the glitter of a tear. His feeble hand pushed back the locks as white as silky snow, and he answered the committee in a voice soft and low. “I’ve sung the songs of David nearly eighty years,” said he. “They’ve been my staff and comfort all along life’s dreary way. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed the choir; I guess I was doing wrong. But when my heart is filled with praise, I can’t keep back a song. I wonder if beyond the tide that’s breaking at my feet, in that far-off heavenly mansion, where my Master I shall meet, I wonder if I should try to sing the songs of God up higher, I wonder if they’ll church me for singing in Heaven’s choir.” Silence filled the room, the old man bowed his head. The carriage rattled back to town, but Brother Ira was dead. Oh, the choir missed him for awhile, but soon was forgotten. A few church members watched the door, but the old man entered not. And far away his voice is sweet, where he sings his heart’s desire, where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs.