Wilton Agnew Barrett
The white church on the hillLooks over the little bay—A beautiful thing on the hillWhen the mist is gray;When the hill looks old, and the air turns coldWith the dying day!The white church on the hill—A Greek in a Puritan town—Was built on the brow of the hillFor John Wesley’s God’s renown,And a conscience old set a steeple coldOn its Grecian crown.In a storm of faith on the hillHands 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 coldTo the Milky Way.The white church on the hillLooks lonely over the town.Dim to them under the hillIs its God’s renown,And its Bible old, and its creed grown cold,And the letters brown.
The white church on the hillLooks over the little bay—A beautiful thing on the hillWhen the mist is gray;When the hill looks old, and the air turns coldWith the dying day!The white church on the hill—A Greek in a Puritan town—Was built on the brow of the hillFor John Wesley’s God’s renown,And a conscience old set a steeple coldOn its Grecian crown.In a storm of faith on the hillHands 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 coldTo the Milky Way.The white church on the hillLooks lonely over the town.Dim to them under the hillIs its God’s renown,And its Bible old, and its creed grown cold,And the letters brown.
The white church on the hillLooks over the little bay—A beautiful thing on the hillWhen the mist is gray;When the hill looks old, and the air turns coldWith the dying day!
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 hillFor John Wesley’s God’s renown,And a conscience old set a steeple coldOn its Grecian crown.
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 hillHands 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 coldTo the Milky Way.
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 hillLooks lonely over the town.Dim to them under the hillIs its God’s renown,And its Bible old, and its creed grown cold,And the letters brown.
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.