The Church Where Grandma Prayed

by Birdie Houston

There's a stern tall green willow tree,
Where God's children use to play,
Seasonal winds blowing, blow
Waving branches sway,
The church yard always pretty,
Church bells ring on Sunday noon,
Like a gorgeous painted picture,
Colorful flowers stand full bloom,
Church doors they did open,
Ushers smile with greet,
To warmly welcome you,
As they guide you to your seat,
Looking across the pulpit,
I heard the preacher say,
Come to the altar, dear one
where your grandma use to pray,
I felt I wasn't good enough,
To stand among the saints,
What if I have to testify,
What would the people think?
When standing at the altar,
I felt a big defeat,
Something hit my soul,
Conquering my weak,
When I went back to the pews,
I still stood upon my feet,
Wanting to give testimony,
To feel wholesome or complete,
There's many books of the Bible,
Which I have never read,
Oft times been called unsuitable names,
No, not enough been said,
I lived and learned what was sin,
I learned how to forgive,
I learned prayers are truly answered,
Peace can reside within,
I learned money is only money,
Problems it can bring,
And you're still somebody, Yes!
If no fortune and now fame,
You'll always find busy bodies,
Or people placing blame,
Down sizing you to stay ahead,
Of man kinds wicked games,
I'd also like to add,
I'm glad to be here on this day,
And testify at the church,
Where grandma use to pray.

The Church Where Grandma Prayed by Birdie Houston

© Copyright 2008. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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