Wednesday, 15 August 2012

"Country Church " by Muriel Willa

So I push open the old oak door 
My soul is stilled, my spirits soar; 
A hush, a fragrance all around 
Tell me I am on holy ground. 
Hundreds of years of praise and prayer 
Hang like incense in the air; 
A golden cross on the altar stands 
Polished by careful, prayerful hands, 
While flowers of living radiance shine 
In beauty wrought by love divine. 
With sapphire, emerald, ruby, rose, 
Purple and amber-each window glows, 
With angels, saints, translucent, bright, 
Shepherds and lambs of pearly white. 
The life of Christ in grace arrayed 
From manger to cross portrayed, 
Then risen in glorious majesty 
To   reign  in heaven eternally. 
The font, where babes in long robes dressed, 
The stone floor, worn by reverent tread, 
The wooden pews where prayers are said; 
The pulpit by some steps is reached 
Where countless sermons have been preached.
I sense the sacred atmosphere 
Of   comfort  and forgiveness here,
And for some moments humbly kneel, 
God's  presence  and His peace to feel. 
Refreshed, I step outside once more. 
And gently close the ancient door.