This old house of white clapboards
with its tin roof, arched windows and gables,
its long porch laid out with columns and rockers
overlooking the promise of its fields
stands as the birthright and inheritance
of these hopeful sons and daughters.
This is their land, clear cut and ploughed
by hand, for centuries, through generations
prospering out of diligence and perseverance,
a certain satisfaction in the abundance
and the sharing of a harvest.

A plain, simple church spire
bears testament to their faith.
Here is where they prayed for rain,
thanked God for the blessings of sunshine,
asked for deliverance from drought and hail.
This is where they knelt at the altar
and then stood up and sang,
holding hands in the light.
Here is where they bore witness
to wedding vows, baptized their children,
buried their dead.