WHITE CHAPEL

A little church of white washed wood
back when a few chestnuts yet stood
on a Mississippi forested hill
a place that I remember still

The structure raised by congregation
who worked with little hesitation
to build a place to sing and pray
once a week on the Lord's day

Heated by potbelly stove
with wood cut from a nearby grove
in summer cooled by open window
whenever the breeze chose to blow

the preacher, young and whipcord thin
slow and quiet he'd begin
expounding on Lucifer's blunder
his voice rising like building thunder

He'd slap the lectern with a crack
then doff his threadbare coat of black
as with a practiced baritone
he'd hurl hellfire and brimstone

When he announced which hymn to sing
that old upright would nearly ring
the joyful noise that we would make
surely made old rafters shake

I still his look and style recall
what of his name ? nothing at all
but the seed he planted slowly grew
until right and wrong I knew

Fifty years, a near lifetime ago
but I remember even so
this building and surrounding lands
I wonder if this church still stands