It sits there proudly in the corn field, on the hill there all alone

With shutters hanging and paint peeling, its years are surely shown

 

Beside her and behind that broken and faded old white picket fence

Old time family members were placed so after life could commence

 

The grounds are now ragged and covered with years of growth

For the youngsters they all grew up and moved away years ago

 

There are no families living out in this countryside anymore

No more church bells ringing or folks seeking shelter in a storm

 

Where there once were church socials with Martha’s famous pie

Now the church hall sits empty and the wind sounds like it cries

 

The church pews are broken and dusty and falling on the floor

For in it’s soul it knows there will never be sermons like before

 

There will be no more singing or Easter Egg hunts in the yard

Yes, looking at this Little Country Church that is falling down is hard

 

From My World to Yours,

Bob Baker