I see them rush by, they don’t seem to care.
They don’t seem to notice me standing right there.
They all are so busy, I’ve been left in the dust.
My doors are so old, the hinges now rust.
My steeple is old, some shingles fell off.
My roof is now home to overgrown moss.
The stairs are run down, broken, unkept.
The pews are all dusty, the floor is unswept.
The mossy old tombstones in my churchyard are cold.
They haven’t been visited, the markers are old.
No flowers been placed, no prayers have been said.
No tears have been cried o’re the graves of my dead.
The vines have come up on the old stony walls.
Where tulips once bloomed, nothing grows now at all.
My sign has since fallen, the weeds now have grown.
Once bustling with people, now stand I, alone.
The bible lays open on my pulpit, untouched.
I no longer hear it echo ‘round very much.
No hymns have been sung, no organ’s been played.
It’s as though to come in me, many folks are afraid.
My bell hangs there silent, in it’s tower, alone.
No one’s reached to play it, and hear it’s sweet tone.
Many pews are there broken, others dusty besides.
It’s been long since my isle’s graced the feet of it’s brides.
The old stained-glass windows, those shattered and gone,
Now lay in pieces on the brown of my lawn.
The bibles and hymnbooks are tattered with age.
There are memories of good times on every old page.
But now I’m not noticed. All the people rush by.
Too busy with work, too busy with life.
They all do not realize that all I stood for,
Had all been forgotten when they last closed my doors.
And now I just stand here, torn down, alone.
‘Cause they all are so busy with lives of their own.
They’ve no time to read, no time to pray.
They do not realize, who’ll claim them someday.
The bird’s keep me comp’ny, my friend is the wind.
But I wouldn’t be lonely, if folks would come in.
If only they’d open the hymnbooks once more,
Dust off the pews, and sweep up the floor.
Just once shine the bell, and pull out the weeds.
Then fix up the pulpit, from the old bible read.
Once more lay the flowers on the graves of the dead.
Once again tend the bulbs in the old flower bed.
And I would be happy to hear sound in my halls.
To have my roof fixed, trim the vines off my walls.
But I must stay silent, forsaken, alone.
That this was God’s house, who would have known?
But folks have not kept me, all this they allow.
I used to be gorgeous, but look at me now.
Folks haven’t bothered, for poor souls to search.
And now I’m alone, a forgotten old church.