THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH

Youth and dreams indeed reside

Inside a heavenly package,

And serve to prove there is no truth

To that old, familiar adage.

That youth is wasted on the young,

Oh no!  They're part of God's perfection,

Their sweet innocence confirms

They have the holiest connection.

Not long removed from heaven's womb,

Their ties are still intact,

A joy to see - a joy to hear,

God's messengers, in fact.

One day I watched the children play,

Imagine my surprise,

To see a church that they designed

Appear before my eyes.

Their steeple was a massive tree,

Their preacher's stand, a mound,

Their pews were cushioned with green grass,

In rows upon the ground.

Johnny, as the oldest boy,

Was the self-appointed preacher,

Jennie, not too far behind,

Became their Bible teacher.

Their music leader's name was Hank,

He left much to be desired,

For Hank could hardly sing a note,

Yet he chose to lead the choir.

The other kids were choir members,

Or part of the congregation,

As were the birds and bees and crawly things,

And the rest of God's creations.

Soon, one heard sweet voices raised,

By the children, all aglow,

Their words, "Yes, Jesus loves me,

And the Bible tells me so."

They all smiled and laughed with glee,

And expressed their youthful joy,

Then their preacher, Johnny, prayed,

That precious, little boy.

"Okay, God, we sung our song,

Please bless us ev'ryone,

We will be good, just like we should!,

Amen!  And now we're done!"

Not any well-trained preacher man

Could be loved more greatly than this child,

Nor any Bible teacher

Be considered more worthwhile.

And no man-made church on earth could be,

As close to God as this,

This place has surely got to be

God's Most Holy Edifice!