The Little Old Church Poem by A. Ed Bollington

The little church was standing, silent on a hill
It's woodwork old and rotting, doors bang to at will
The old bell tower was cracking, the bell it had no rope
To call the folk to church with it you did not have a hope

The seats were broke and splintered, timber all mildew
Hole's in backs and bottoms, you could fall right through
The graveyard long deserted, the vigour slept within
Although in church his missing, it did not seem a sin

As I stood there just looking wondering what to do
A shaft of light shone over me, and seemed to pass right through
I felt a mighty presence, my soul it cried out loud
I knew the lord was kind to me and then my head I bowed

The moral of my story, though it's crumbling like a clod
In this little old church, you are always close to God.