Ghost Town Church In Snow

Guess it was ‘bout mid-December And a winter storm was howlin’— Was roundin’ up strays I remember And my belly start to growlin’. I come upon an ol’ ghost town I’d rode through many times now past— There were some ol’ buildin’s left round— I reckon most things jest don’t last. Yet there in whirlin’ snow and haze Stood the remnants of an ol’ church, That had once seen much better days— Its cockeyed cross carved out of birch. A coat of snow made it all clean, Made it full of hope for mankind— The whiteness gave it a new sheen Now at the end of its long line. No one remembered the town’s name Or the people that once lived here— Its history had been reclaimed By time and heavy snows each year. As I straightened up that ol’ cross And thought of folks singin’ inside— I remembered all that we’ve lost: Those that lived and loved and then died. If there’s a moral to this town And this snowy church all alone— It’s be content with what we’ve found At the place we humbly call home.