  Beside a winding country road A house unique one sees, It used to be the Lord’s abode, Now that of groceries. A church with graveyard in its rear, Where many saints do sleep, O, could they rise, I greatly fear, It would be for to weep, Beholding what the years have wrought In changes of the place, How man for gain has rudely sought Its mem’ries to efface. For here, where generations met To worship God in truth, Now Mammon has his motto set, With Vandal hand uncouth. Where once did sound the Holy Word, By men of earnest heart, Now bargainings are daily heard,— The language of the mart. Where once the altar stood, now stands A stove around which sit The gossiper’s unholy bands And swear and lie and spit. And could each much neglected mound Yield up its dust to life again, The words of Christ would then resound: “My Father’s house ye made a den.” But thus our sacrilegious age Is blinded by the god of gold, Soon finished is its sacred page, Our days of worship well-nigh told. |
|
