Old Union Church
The red man roamed these lugged hills
A hundred years ago,
‘Neath forests vast and deep and still,
Where the Moshannons flow.
The panther stalked the timid doe;
The wolf’s cry pierced the night;
Thro' summer’s heat and winter’s snow,
All life for life did fight.
To this vast wilderness there came
The white man with his God,
And reared a house in His high Name,
Where giant pines had stood.
That house of player his faith forth told;
It hallowed his rude life;
It made him true and strong and bold
For days of stress and strife.
The red man to his rate passed by;
His forest haunts are gone;
The settlers in God’s Acre lie;
This house remains alone.
Broad streets the wooded paths replace;
steam engines through the valleys race;
Arcs shine like midnight suns.
Where Ox-teams crept, the auto speeds;
Where eagles poised in flight,
The airmen on their roaring steeds
Ride as a flash of light.
The flying years great change have brought,
Old things have passed away;
New tasks and hopes engage the thought
Of those who live today.
Yet on this busy modern stage,
The OLD CHURCH stands, as then;—
The relic of a bygone age
And its devoted men,
It tells how great the debt we owe
To those in death’s long sleep,
Who in their time, with tears did sow,
Where we, with laughter, reap.
Silent,—it speaks a solemn truth
To all who may pass by,
Of life’s short span; of death’s wide ruth;
Of home beyond the sky.
It teaches that the worth of life
is not in wealth or fame;
But faring nobly in earth’s strife,
By faith in Jesus’ name.
Long years it as a symbol stood
Of willing sacrifice
For common weal, for future good;
Of service without price.
Great churches now our streets adorn;
One mother, all will own,—
they whate’er their creed or form,
Are daughters, every one.
Let us have wisdom so to prize
This relic of the past,
That it may greet our children’s eyes;
Another cent’ry last.
Old Union Church by Rev. R. P. Miller, from The One Hundredth
Anniversary of the Union Church, Philipsburg, Penna, Nov 12, 1920.