The Old Church
The day they tore the old church down,
I was there, the regal clown.
The one who tried to stop them all,
To save the old church from the fall.
No other voice would join with mine,
No other soul remembered the time.
When the old church stood against the night,
A bastion strong hold in the fight.
A source of peace, of hope, of grace,
Salvation of the human race.
Held strong when human flesh was not.
Defeating evil hoards onslaught.
Where lies 'neath walls of moss and stone,
Men of flesh now martyrs of bone.
Who fell defending holy keep,
Called home by God for reward's sleep.
What would they put in old church's stead?
Space to rent next to the dead...?
Who still lie interred under trodden lawn,
Lie not still now their caretaker's gone.
I hear them mourning loss of friend,
Which ought not come to this sad end.
As bit by bit comes crashing down.
A pile of rubble on the ground.
If they could rise and fight again,
Their swords in service to defend.
Against man's arrogance in God's face
There would be no talk of office space.
But today, there is no place of peace,
Just a box of rooms to lease.
Nothing left behind to save.
Only ghost and grave.
Copyright © Jeff W. Watson | Year Posted 2020
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