There stands a little church of white
beside the railroad track,
where mountain shadows stretch at dusk
and freight trains rumble back.

Its steeple points toward Heaven’s gate,
above the coal-black hills,
while Sunday hymns drift through the pines
and echo down the fills.

The engineer blows his whistle long
as he passes by each week,
a greeting to the saints inside,
the faithful and the meek.

The benches creak with miners’ bones,
with widows dressed in blue,
and children who have heard the Word
since mountain mornings knew.

Outside, the rails shine silver bright,
curving through the vale,
carrying dreams beyond the ridge
on every passing rail.

Yet many leave and many roam,
to cities far away,
while that old church beside the tracks
keeps watch and kneels to pray.

Its bell has rung through floods and wars,
through boom times and decline,
through empty mines and hard-bought years
when hope was hard to find.

And still each Sunday morning comes,
the doors swing open wide,
as freight cars thunder down below
and mercy waits inside.

For mountain folk know journeys well,
both earthly roads and skies,
and every train that passes by
reminds them life still flies.

So there it stands, through rain and snow,
beneath God’s endless care—
A little church beside the rails,
and Heaven in the air.