There's an old church in the woods
More than a century it has stood,
Far into the rolling forested hills
In quietness it sits imposingly still.
Rarely visited except for the seasons
Long ago there was ample reasons
For country folks to enter it's door
But hardly a soul enters anymore.
Once it's walls shown pure white,
Windows welcomed with lamplight
Believers came from miles around
To this small church with no town.
Sunday the big bell would ring
Soon gospel songs they'd sing,
God's house had the spirit in it
As the preacher took the pulpit.
Frontier pioneers came to pray
Getting ready for judgment day,
After worship they met in the yard
To talk of how times were hard.
Wakes and weddings therein by all
It served too as Community Hall,
Church picnics and potluck dinners
Were enjoyed by saints and sinners.
Through the years it's weathered
Offering peace for those gathered,
From the rafters to the floor below
It held salvation for those that go.
Now the little church waits alone
It's foundation crumbling stone,
Once a busy house of God stood
Beckoning from the birch woods.
