The Church

The Church's Doors
By ANDREW BLAKEMORE

How sad was I to see them close
The church's doors for this the age,
When nothing now is sacred
And its lead's worth more than God.
The key was turned within the lock
For none were trusted anymore,
And only for the Sabbath
Were they opened up again.
No answer now when I do knock
No entry when I turn the latch,
No place to shelter from the rain
No shield against the cold.
No longer can I go to pray
Nor find a deep tranquility,
Within this house those days have passed
I wish they would return.
What value were those artefacts
Compared to this the love of Christ?
For that indeed does have no price
The greatest gift of all.
For when those non-believers stole
The altar's gold my father wept,
For they did take the faith of man
And threw it to the ground.
Where now it lies amongst the graves
And yet will never rest in peace,
But toss and turn till God again
Shall dwell within this land.