The Forsaken Church

Doors, oaken, never ajar;
Locked up tight with bolt and bar:
The church is not what it was.
 
Light through the stained glass slanting;
A raven in the belfry ranting:
The church is not what is was.
 
Shadows dancing down the aisle;
Sliding o’er the tarnished tile:
The church is not what it was.
 
Above, a high and lofted ceiling;
Filled with a cold and empty feeling:
The church is not what it was.
 
Pews, worn from long ago;
Dust filling every row:
The church is not what it was.
 
Once, choral voices ringing;
Now, utter silence singing:
The church is not what it was.

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