A New England Church

The white church on the hill   Looks over the little bay— A beautiful thing on the hill   When the mist is gray; When the hill looks old, and the air turns cold   With the dying day! The white church on the hill—   A Greek in a Puritan town— Was built on the brow of the hill   For John Wesley’s God’s renown, And a conscience old set a steeple cold   On its Grecian crown. In a storm of faith on the hill   Hands raised it over the bay. When the night is clear on the hill,   It stands up strong and gray; But its door is old, and the tower points cold   To the Milky Way. The white church on the hill   Looks lonely over the town. Dim to them under the hill   Is its God’s renown, And its Bible old, and its creed grown cold,   And the letters brown.