A certain kind of people,
Meeting under a tall steeple,
Imagine that that’s the church.
Tall walls do not a church make.
New birth is more than a handshake;
Which these find out when in a lurch.
The church is made of redeemed hearts,
And though they meet in various parts,
Under clear sky, under a huge tree;
Worship, that’s why we gather,
Even in cold, wet weather.
Church is you and me. -eab, 10/1/08
Written at Westfield,Indiana
Separate-Holy 