One Sunday while out on a drive
And thanking God to be alive,
I spied, among a stand of birch,
A lonely, rundown, country church.

I stopped beside that gravel road
And up a grown up path I strode,
Intent to find what was in store
Behind that church's oaken door.

I thought it just a trifle odd
To find this little House of God,
That Sunday morning, warm and splendid,
So closed up and unattended.

As on that door I gently pried,
On squeaky hinge, it opened wide.
A portal to a time where trod
A people more in touch with God.

And as I entered that old shrine
Whose maintenance was in decline,
I felt the presence of those souls
Who used to fill those Christian roles.

And years ago some congregation
In this rural byway station
Heard about divine reward
From some young agent of the Lord.

But gathered dust upon the pews
Was one of many silent clues
That hinted of a fruitless search
For hungry souls to fill this church.

An echo from some ancient prayer
Came tumbling down a creaky stair
That led to where a rustic choir
Once filled this church with heav'nly fire.

And as I listened, I heard soft
And plaintive tunes come from that loft,
And they brought back to me a time
When this old church was in its prime.

The altar stood in disrepair,
While shafts of sunlight filled the air
That filtered through those stained glass panes
To shed some light on God's remains,

I stood there in the sacred gloom
Of Heaven's country anteroom,
And wondered if we could restore
God's House to what it was before.

And as I turned to take my leave,
I wiped a tear upon my sleeve.
It seemed a shame that there should be
But two souls here - just God and me.