Church in the Wildwood

The old church in the cove stood tall, its large wooden doors open. Inside, it was stripped down, bared-boned; the dark wooden pews worn from centuries of age and prayer. Here, in this silent monument of history we had come, washed in the glow of afternoon light and the oppressive beauty of an enchanted place.  

It was here that his music rang out, out of the open door, the worn rafters; the current age occupying a remnant of the past one. The story of the Cross the same now as it was then--from everlasting to everlasting. We lay our burdens down here, at the foot of the cross. We occupy, in wonder, the hollowed-out structure, the aged bones of this cove; we occupy, in wonder, the hallowed beauty of where He has chosen to place His name.