It was just a little country Church,
Built near a dirt crossroad,
But they came from miles and miles around,
Their burdens to unload.
Even in the dead of winter,
When the snow lay on the ground,
A warm glow filled all of the room,
And a large crowd could be found.
The preacher in the pulpit,
Would lament the sinnerís ways.
He would say our days were numbered,
If we didnít mend our ways.
Give Me That Old Time Religion,
Was just the warm up tune,
For the clapping and the singing,
That would echo in the room.
There was joy and there was laughter,
And there also were some tears,
But the lessons that we learned there,
Served us well through out our years.
The Church stands there after all these years,
But now has a sad old face,
The windows are all broken,
Still I can hear those songs of grace.
Next to the Church the plots are filled,
With friends who lie in wait,
For the preacher and St. Peter,
To open wide Heavens gate.
(c)2003 Loree (Mason) O'Neil
Loree's website: Poetry By Loree
Photo: The Hermitage Chapel, one of many beautiful small churches still holding services here in the Shenandoah Valley.