There’s a little thing called conscience
And it lives inside of you,
And it’s always asking questions,
Of the things you say and do.

Like the time it asked the reason
Why you went and told that lie,
And it’s not much use you fibbing
For it knows the reason why.

Like that certain place you went to,
When its voice came low, but clear,
“If you claim to be a Christian
Then what are you doing there?”

Oh, this little thing called conscience,
Though it isn’t big or tall,
Even talking in a whisper,
Can make cowards of us all.

Yet, it’s like a faithful watchdog,
And if you will heed it well,
It will fit your soul for heaven,
And will keep you out of hell.

By Arthur Slater.