Time took the better of the priest
Sermon-weary, not the the least
Entering his sanctuary
The church, the church is empty
The air is moist, the light is dim
There's mold that's creeping up the walls
Frescoes gone beyond repair
The church, the church is empty
And thus decays a house of God
The sounds of worship have reduced
From benches left as woodworm food
Made from trees that bear no fruit
Old lady's tribute to gospel's truth
Her bouquets replace absent youth
It seems the time for saving souls
Is withering and waning
The old priest rises from his seat
The chancel steps creak 'neath his feet
It seems the time for Chosen Ones
Runs out like clouds when raining
No successor for the man
A cold wind blowing through the aisles
The flock has fled to modern times
The bell, for deaf man's ears it chimes
And thus decays a house of God
The sounds of worship have reduced
From benches left as woodworm food
Made from trees that bear no fruit
The air is moist, the light is dim
There's mold that's creeping up the walls
A breeze of cold that treads the halls
The church, the church is empty