The Little Church

The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I sat

With mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat —

How I would like to see it now the way I saw it then,

The straight-backed pews, the pulpit high, the women and the men

Dressed stiffly in their Sunday clothes and solemnly devout,

Who closed their eyes when prayers were said and never looked about —

That little church of Long Ago, it was n't grand to see,

But even as a little boy it meant a lot to me.

The choir loft where father sang comes back to me again;

I hear his tenor voice once more the way I heard it when

The deacons used to pass the plate, and once again I see

The people fumbling for their coins, as glad as they could be

To drop their quarters on the plate, and I'm a boy once more

With my two pennies in my fist that mother gave before

We left the house, and once again I'm reaching out to try

To drop them on the plate before the deacon passes by.

It seems to me I'm sitting in that high-backed pew, the while

The minister is preaching in that good old-fashioned style;

And though I could n't understand it all somehow I know

The Bible was the text book in that church of Long Ago;

He did n't preach on politics, but used the word of God,

And even now I seem to see the people gravely nod,

As though agreeing thoroughly with all he had to say,

And then I see them thanking him before they go away.

The little church of Long Ago was not a structure huge,

It had no hired singers or no other subterfuge

To get the people to attend,‘ twas just a simple place

Where every Sunday we were told about God's saving grace;

No men of wealth were gathered there to help it with a gift;

The only worldly thing it had — a mortgage hard to lift.

And somehow, dreaming here to-day, I wish that I could know

The joy of once more sitting in that church of Long Ago.