There’s something about that little church
That stands on the corner at the foot of the hill;
Once it was painted gray, but now it’s white –
That makes it much more cheery and light.
It once had a fence about it, too,
With double swing gates, with curved top rails;
But the gates are gone, and so is the fence,
So now there’s an air of more tolerance.
It once had a row of hitching posts
Along the plank walk on either side,
But now they are gone and so are the planks,
So beside the concrete walk the tin buggies stand.
The pews were flat boards ¾” thick
That creaked and groaned with a strain,
But now the pews are of brown stained oak
Designed for the comfort of ord’nary folk.
But the spire still stands as it did of old
Pointing ever upward for every soul.
As it did to our fathers in years long past,
We pray it will continue to last.
And the word from the book that is taught year to year
Is the same as it was of old,
Though the emphasis may change when a new pastor arrives,
The pointing is always UP – up to the skies.
