There’s a church upon a hill
That’s not grand the olden way
No spires reach for heaven
No limestone brown or grey

It sits simple and serene
A field leads to its door
Which is made of sturdy oak
Wooden planks the porch’s floor

I see it in the summer
Its garments purest white
When children ply its fields
With laughter strong and bright

I watch it in the winter
When I walk from there to here
Wreathed in green branches
That always bring me cheer

I imagine this of God
With all his power and his might
That his truest secret joy
Is just to share with us his light