A simple thing of knotted pineAnd corrugated tin;But still, to those who read, a sign,A fortress on the farthest lineAgainst the march of sin.
Though rich man’s gold was lacking quite,We built it strong and sure,With willing hands and (Faith’s delight)The savings spared, the widow’s mite,The shillings of the poor.
Nor could it fail to meet the eyeAnd reverent thoughts instil,As there above the township high,And pointing always to the sky,It stood upon the hill.
And through our lives in wondrous waysIts holy purpose ledFrom limpid lisping cradle-daysTo where the silent moonlight laysWhite hands upon the dead.
For when the Holy Morning strungIts beads upon the grass,You’d see us driving—old and young—The tall white graceful trees among,On every road to Mass.
It brought the brave young mother there,Surrounded by her brood,To wrap their tiny hearts in prayer,And teach them how to cast their careUpon the Holy Rood.
It watched the little bush girl grow,And kept her life from harm,Till, spotless as the virgin snowIn wreath and veil, it saw her goUpon her husband’s arm.
It blessed strong, trembling shoulders bent:Helped many a soul in thrallTo climb again the steep ascent,And reft the grim entanglementThat brought about the fall.
It soothed the gray old mother’s pain,A-swaying while she toldHer rosary o’er and o’er again,For griefs that rent her heart in twain—So new, and ah, so old!
(There’s “that poor boy who went astray,”And lined her gentle brow;There’s “them that’s wand’rin’ fur away,”And “them that’s in their grave to-day”And “beck’nin’ ” to her now.)
Refuge it gave the weary heart,Beyond the sordid dinAnd conflict of the crowded mart,One sweet, sequestered nook apart,Where all might enter in.
Though high and grand cathedrals shine,To my mind grander stillIs that wee church of knotted pine,That rampart on the outer lineThat stood upon the hill.