The Curative
As ailments get worse without a cure,
And the pain is more than we can endure,
We look around to find the cause,
Like a warming sun that shines and thaws.
As congregations dwindle, we are the sun.
Like winter to summer, a change is to begun,
Like the seasons we shed our heavy coats,
A change is imminent as our plea invokes.
Olden days worked for the days of yore.
Demands are different than they were before.
Communal service is the cure for the ailing,
For us as a church and the public prevailing.
The cure begotten, the restoration in progress.
This poem is about our church attendance and how it's growing
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