Swainboat, who generously allowed me to use his work. When I traveled in my work, I frequently passed a little brick chapel beside the highway. It occasioned me to write this poem. Thank you for stopping by.
THE LITTLE CHAPEL
It's just a little chapel that sits beside the way
But I wonder what it could tell me if it could speak today.
The tower is now empty where the beckoning bell once rang,
And only dusty silence where the little congregation sang.
The windows are now vacant and the pews are long since gone,
But, if I listen, I hear echoes of ice cream socials on the lawn.
I imagine all the faithful who have talked here with their God
While outside their forefathers rested deep beneath prairie sod.
I see all the bridal couples who have here exchanged their vows,
And think of long-ago sermons soothing furrowed brows.
How many babes were christened, how many old folks laid to rest?
How many Sunday mornings with folks dressed in Sunday best?
I feel God all about me as I stand beside the door
And listen to the voices of those who've passed before.
For one day I'll be like them, when this life has passed me by
And my voice be but an echo to some dreamer such as I.
May I live my life with honor in my short time here on earth,
And touch the lives of others with love, and joy and mirth.
May there always be a moment as day follows busy day
For echoes like the chapel's and what it had to say.