Walk quietly among these generations lying on this Holy Bluff
Touch these ancient trees;
Read reverently these faded stones;
Then be still
and listen to the faint sounds from the distant past.
The carpenter's mallet rising this God's House
While we were still under England's yoke
The first sermon
In heavy Scottish brogue,
Eighteen full years before we were free.
The horse-drawn carriages and wagons,
Approaching from every direction
For over a hundred and fifty years;
Steeds stepping spiritedly across open fields
Carrying your fore-fathers in their tall hats,
and their bonneted women riding side-saddle
To worship in this Holy Place.
Listen to the hushed discussion in the churchyard
on matters of Independence
the Continental Congress
and things of Freedom.
Listen through the opened windows of voices raised in song
down through the ages.
Listen to the cannon booming just across the meadow
Our people are at war with themselves.
Listen to the quiet weeping for the men off to war -- world wide and smaller.
Some of all of them sleep here.
Your fathers
and their fathers before them
Sleep here.
Your heritage sleeps here.
Walk quietly among their generations sleeping on this Holy Bluff.
Then be still and know that God walks here
and has
and will.
Melvin G. Hartley -- 1977
