The little church was standing, silent on a hill <br /> It's woodwork old and rotting, doors bang to at will <br /> The old bell tower was cracking, the bell it had no rope <br /> To call the folk to church with it you did not have a hope <br /> <br /> The seats were broke and splintered, timber all mildew <br /> Hole's in backs and bottoms, you could fall right through <br /> The graveyard long deserted, the vigour slept within <br /> Although in church his missing, it did not seem a sin <br /> <br /> As I stood there just looking wondering what to do <br /> A shaft of light shone over me, and seemed to pass right through <br /> I felt a mighty presence, my soul it cried out loud <br /> I knew the lord was kind to me and then my head I bowed <br /> <br /> The moral of my story, though it's crumbling like a clod <br /> In this little old church, you are always close to God.<br /><br />A. Ed Bollington<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-old-church/
