COUNTRY CHURCH

The mile-long trek was made each week

Down gravel road beside a creek,

To a one room church, faded, plain

At farthest end of a shaded lane.

Each Sunday saw the faithful few

Take their places in time-worn pews.

Benediction and a few old hymns

And the weekly service would begin.

The preacher is a simple man,

Yesterday he plowed his land.

Tomorrow he will once more toil,

Callused hands in rocky soil.

But today he is transfigured

Into something wiser, bigger;

Flushed and sweating is his visage,

Fire and brimstone is his message.

The Word in hand, he paces there,

Accusing eyes, disheveled hair;

Countenance stern, his voice resounds

To farthest corners of holy ground.

Foot washings from time to time,

Strange tongues and testifying.

Cool baptisms on summer days

At sparkling streams in morning haze.

With the sacred word delivered

And after altar call for sinners,

Dinner is laid upon the ground,

Where food and fellowship abound.

Souls uplifted, grace attained,

Folks resume hard life again.

Returning back to homes and farms

Families walking arm in arm.

Melancholy stirs my mind,

Transports me to a simpler time.

Memories strum a plaintive dirge,

And I go back to that country church.

(copyright 2008 Ken Ragan)