The Old Church
© By Grady L. Duncan
Just north of where I live,
down the road about a mile,
still stands the old church house,
where I attended as a child.
‘Twas there I found direction,
that pointed me on the way,
that would lead me to the Savior,
that I would serve one day.
I did a lot of squirming,
on those home-made wooded pews,
wearing a scratchy starched shirt,
and my ill-fitting shoes.
I had to watch my step,
and do just what daddy said,
or I’d get a poke in the ribs,
or a hard thump on my head.
On occasions when passing by,
it still seems to beckon me,
but now it’s securely locked,
and I don’t have the key.
So, I just stop and listen,
as my memories bring back the sounds,
of the singing in angelic voices,
that come from all around.
Its people now have passed.
They worship here no more.
They now rest in Paradise,
on Heaven’s peaceful shore.
Soon they’ll sing with angels,
before God’s glorious throne,
while the old church building,
stands there, looking so alone.
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