A small brown church sits by the road
Unobtrusive, silent, memories in store.
The old structure drab in color, yet bold
Painted brown during the great Civil War.

By stagecoach, a man did come
To view the beauty where it now stands.
It is there the church appears in a vision.
He writes a poem from God, not man.

Lo and behold, as years go swiftly by
The vision unfolds where he stood.
The poem he wrote many years before
Is the famous hymn, “Church in the Wildwood.”

A still, small voice resides in the glen
Among the quiet gentle rustling of the grass
It is where God spoke to a man’s pure heart
And prayers from a town answered at last.

I know this church of nostalgia and fame.
I hear its voice as I stand at its doors.
It tires of harboring stories of long ago
I yearn to stay by its side and listen for more.

Rustic and majestic the church does stand
If it could talk and tell you stories of long ago
You would be amazed at all seen and heard;
Stories of white man, Indian, friend and foe.

Through the years, the paint may fade
The structure will shift as time goes on
Yet, the spirit of faith remains in place
Emblazoned in history and words of a song.

Oh come to the church in the wildwood
Oh come to the church in the Dale
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the Little Brown Church in the Vale.