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The Little White Church

Back in a nook, all tucked away,
Sits a little white frame;
Wood and glass catch the eye,
But strangely enough no name.

Just a small little place,
Unassuming and meager;
But holding great promise,
To the old, young and eager.

What a quaint front porch,
With a few little stairs;
It beckons an entrance,
With serenity in the air.

Who shall come to this place,
This small little haven;
With its promise of light,
For those sleeping shall waken.

The colors of light,
Shining in from the glass;
Defrosting the heart,
From the wrongs of the past.

Who built this place?
This wonderful sight;
It seems to radiate out,
Mustering with all its might.

The young ones will come,
Seeking guidance and truth;
Pure hearts not forsaken,
This place yearns for their youth.

The old ones will come,
Bearing scars in their minds;
Trusting time has not weakened,
Searching, needing, wanting to find.

Many people pass by,
This little white church;
Standing quietly alone,
Never ending its search.

It longs to be filled,
With the benches a bulging;
Love, light and joy,
Will it all be divulging.

Come one and all,
It cries out in silence;
For this little white church,
Shall bring solace and guidance.

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Welcome, Poet

An auspicious debut. A little formal for my tastes, & could use a little work on metrics, but otherwise reasonably well executed.

What else ya got?

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Thank you

Hello Ron, and thank you so much for your comment.  I will take all the comments (good or bad) I can get.