Marilyn Ferguson ©1992

His old and shabby clothing
Revealed a strong determined will
With shaky legs and tattered bible
He’d go to the church upon the hill.

T’was just a crooked little building
In a state of needed repair
But, it didn’t really matter much
Come Sunday, he’d be there.

Taking his place at the broken down pulpit
He preached about heaven and hell
Thumbing through the yellowing pages
Of the book he knew so well.

Looking over the empty wooden pews
Each Sunday would bring more pain
He’d pray for a congregation
But, nobody ever came.

He knew his days were numbered
One day he felt gravely ill
But, he took his bible with faltering steps
To the church upon the hill.

Perhaps, just this one Sunday
They would come to hear him speak
But, with tear filled eyes, he realized
With them he’d never meet.

He preached a wonderful sermon
To a room so empty and still
Then, he died there at the altar
In the church upon the hill.

A simple funeral was provided
Yet, nobody even came
To pay regards or last respects
To the preacher with no name.


But, little did the people know
The end of time was near
When Jesus came on judgment day
They ran around in fear.

“Oh Jesus, you must save us
Our hearts have been sincere”
But, Jesus turned away from them
Their cries, he did not hear.

He knew their tongues were full of lies
Their souls, he could not heal
For, He was the man who preached and died
In the church upon the hill.

©1992 Marilyn Ferguson
Used with permission

Please email Marilyn to request permission
to use 'A Church Upon a Hill"

Please visit Echoes of the Heart
to read more of Marilyn's wonderful poetry.

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