To A Country Church

Beneath these rafters nobly plain
The tillers of the soil
To worship come, with simple prayers
For strength for daily toil.

And many weary ones who’ve crossed
This humble, worn threshold,
To peace and rest, long since have passed
Through heaven’s gates of gold.

This temple of their faith they built
Of crude, rough boards of pine;
But costly sanctum built of stone
Could be no holier shrine.

Through unadorned, ‘tis glorified
By faith and hope and live,
And beautiful in the sight of Him
Who watches from above.