Poetry

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The little wooden church we attended
was way down by the creek.
But we never missed a Sunday
it was the highlight of our week.

Very early on Sunday mornings
we would jump out of bed.
get dressed and rush to the table
where the blessing was always said.

Then we loaded up the pickup truck
with the children in the back.
We traveled down the dusty road
across the railroad track.

The church was a little shabby
but our hearts were filled with glee.
When we gathered in that place
we had a down home jubilee.

We would sing, preach and pray
and oh did we sing loud.
It was only a few dozen people
but it sounded like a crowd.

People came to give God thanks
and testify to each other.
We were one big, happy family
of Christian sisters and brothers.

Then when church let out
and the fellowshipping was done.
There was joy and laughter in the air
that was shared by everyone.

If only we could return again
to the way church used to be.
When the saints lifted holy hands
our worship was real and free.

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