MMUC12

The Little White Church on the Hill

When I went to the Hall today
I stopped to gaze at the Church on my way
And I said “Hello” as I often do
When someone or something reaches to you.
I touched the sides of the oldish wood
And feeling came of something good
A strength, a beauty, I know not what
The sun just risen, walls not even hot.
Yet there it was, that intangible something,
An echo of past times, a Ghost choir did sing?
So it was that I stood there, my hand on the wall,
There was life there, quite plainly, right across to the Hall.
With eyes shut I saw them, the past congregation,
Surprised me, so many, would fill Central Station.
They came in their Sulkies, on horses, on foot,
In Drought, and in flood, and black Bushfire soot.
All of them worshiped and all of them prayed
And when the Choir sang, what a great sound they made!
There were many with children, both large and small,
The people were all kinds, some short and some tall,
Some had sad faces and some wore the black
And prayed for those Army who never came back.
Yet some wore great smiles as they sped to their Wedding,
The husband he chuckled, probably thinking of bedding!
And over the years their family would grow
The little white Church their stories would know.
It has served as a refuge for Sinners to cry,
And a place of great glory for after you die,
It has seen many Christenings, a loud Babies roar
“Pour more water on me, and I’m out of the door!”
It has heard many Thankyous, heard lots of cries.
And the Minister gently has helped the tears dry
Here have been Blessings, here hearts did soar,
Now the struggle, keep going, keep open the door.
Now the Little White Church needs your hands and Gods,
To stay Congregated against failing odds.
Margie Rogers,
18.5.2019