My bell now hangs quietly, covered in rust;
My altar and pews lie in rubble and dust.
Bare walls reveal several dim outlines faint
Where crucifixes once adorned my walls of fresh paint.
My colorful windows of Biblical depiction
Supported my members’ religious conviction.
Glass shards of color now litter my floor
In hopeless disorder to illuminate no more.
For ages, doors open, I embraced all people,
But perilously askew tilts my once-proud steeple.

Supper, wedding, funeral, revival–
No church event could ensure my survival.
No service (or interest) in Easter resurrection.
Secular life’s welcomed those seeking defection.
Gone the succession of earnest young pastors
Who tended my flocks as their mentors and masters.
Millennials do Instagram, emails, and tweetings–
Their comfort zone avoids all forced Sunday meetings.
Belief flickered out, joy regrettably gone.
Abandoned, alone, my usefulness done.

Will I be reborn on a fluffy white cloud,
My congregants praying, devout heads all bowed?
Will the Master Carpenter Himself rebuild
My walls and their promise: salvation fulfilled?

Will Walsh  ©2017