THE RUSTIC CHURCH

THE RUSTIC CHURCH

When mem’ries keep me company,

And range back through the years;

Recounting all the heart-throbs,

The smiles or bitter tears;

I see a little, rustic church,

E'en now I feel the charm

Of that quaint building ‘cross the way,

There on my father’s farm.

No steeple reaching toward the sky,

Nor mighty organ’s roll;

But somehow in those sacred walls,

A Presence touched the soul.

No D. D.’s graced the pulpit there,

Nor cultured choir sang;

But when those voices raised in song,

The chimes of Heaven rang

Uncarpeted that rough, board floor,

The pews austere and plain;

But worshiping at Jesus’ feet,

We counted naught but gain.

And ne^'er we asked the One above

To spare the chast’ning rod;

But humble and repentant hearts,

There made their peace with God.

The altar, ah, I see it now,

That shrine beyond compare;

Where saddened, hardened, broken hearts

There knelt in humble prayer.

And when sweet peace was in their souls,

At the touch of the Master’s hand;

A glowing light upon each face,

Ne’er seen on sea nor land.

The years have passed, and when I sit

In the modern church today;

And when I hear the anthems sung,

And hear the preacher pray:

At times I close my eyes and drift

Into a world of charm;

And sit again in that rustic church

There on my father’s farm.

HBA

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