The church's main foundation
Is cheques and cash in hand,
That flow from celebrations
Enjoyed throughout the land;
But Treasurers are watching
The books with eagle-eye,
And praying for some donation
That saves the spire on high!

Beset by bills from masons,
And parish shares that soar,
The old iron safe of plenty
Stands empty on the floor;
We cannot sell the silver,
The Diocese decrees,
And so the church of history
Is dying by degrees.

Unless we pay the piper,
The tune will not be played,
And come the interregnum,
No new appointment made,
Despite our protestations
Of numbers few and frail,
We must produce our Quota,
The Diocesan Grail.

Despite these sorts of pressures,
The faithful few hang on,
And scrape each ancient barrel
Till all resource is gone,
Then with the windows shuttered,
The doors locked fast and barred,
The House of God lies empty,
Ending this brief charade.

But buildings are not vital
For the true faith to win,
And from a deep conviction
Love turns us from our sin;
So if the Church of England
Loses its ancient past,
We might regain the balance
And find the truth at last.

©Pharisaios Publications 2001

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