The Rustic Church

When mem'ries keep me company,
And range back through the years;
Recounting all the heart-throbs,
The smiles or bitter tears;
I see a little, rustic church,
E'en now I feel the charm
Of that quaint building 'cross the way,
There on my father's farm.

No steeple reaching toward the sky,
Nor mighty organ's roll;
But somehow in those sacred walls,
A Presence touched the soul.
No D. D.'s graced the pulpit there,
Nor cultured choir sang;
But when those voices raised in song,
The chimes of Heaven rang

Uncarpeted that rough, board floor,
The pews austere and plain;
But worshiping at Jesus' feet,
We counted naught but gain.
And ne'er we asked the One above
To spare the chast'ning rod;
But humble and repentant hearts,
There made their peace with God.

The altar, ah, I see it now,
That shrine beyond compare;
Where saddened, hardened, broken hearts
There knelt in humble prayer.
And when sweet peace was in their souls,
At the touch of the Master's hand;
A glowing light upon each face,
Ne'er seen on sea nor land.

The years have passed, and when I sit
In the modern church today;
And when I hear the anthems sung,
And hear the preacher pray:
At times I close my eyes and drift
Into a world of charm;
And sit again in that rustic church
There on my father's farm.