"The Old Church"

Precious memories of the old church from my childhood back in time. An old wooden church, upon the hill that every Sunday we would climb.

A steeple poised in splendor, extending toward the skies. Showing us the pathway, a message for our apprise.

Stained glass with all its glory, as the sunlight beamed it rays. A place to come and worship. A place to come and pray.

And just across the meadow, flowers all in bloom. In remembrance of our loved ones, that now lie inside their tombs.

The songs of praise would echo, cast it's notes into the breeze. Fill us all with wonder, give hope to those that would appease.

There never was a Sunday, that the old church had empty pews. The gospel within the old church, would always become imbued.

The old church is still standing, but the paint is chipped and worn. And no one comes to worship, it's empty and left forlorn.

No longer can we see the path, that use to lead us to its doors. And the notes that use to echo, are no longer anymore.

My mind has buried memories, of the old church up on the hill. And even though the paint is worn, Its presence has been instilled.