'twas a stylish congregation; why you could see they had been around they had the bigest pipe organ ofany church in town. and over in the corner sat old brother Ira. Who insisted on singing in the choir every sunday. the choir stormed and bluster for brother ira sang to slow and use tunes in vogue a hundred years ago. at last the storm cloud burst and the church was told in vin that brother ira most stop his singing or the choir was going to resign.
So the pastor called into the vestery room a group of every influentail member. who subscribed more then they paid. and after asking God's guidance in a printed prayer or two. they put their heads together to decide just what to do. finally dear bother yoke (who made a million in the sudden rise of pork) arose and moved that a committee wait at once on brother ira and rake him widely for messing up the choir.
So, one afternoon at four three men in stylish cage rod up to brother ira's door they found the choir's trouble sitting in an arm chair with the summers golden beam lay upon his snow white hair. he was singing rock of ages in a soft low voice. the angels understood him that is all he cared to know.
said york. we here dear brother with the vesters accusation's to discuss a little matter that upsets the congregtion. now we do not what any singing accept what we have brought the newest tunes are all aranged, the old ones stand for nought. so we have dediced are you listening dear brother ira you most stop your singing you are messing up are chior.
The old man rraised his head a sign that he did hear. and on his cheek the three men caught a glitter of tear. and with a feeble hand he pushed back locks of snow white hair. and anwser the committee with a soft low vioce. i have sung the song of david nearly eighty year. they have been my staff and comfort along life deary way. i'm sorry if i have disturb the choir. i guess i was doing wrong. i wonder i f beyond the tide that is braking at my feet in that far off heavenly masion where my savior i should meet. i wonder if i should try to sing the songs of god up higher. wonder if they will church me for singing in heavens choir.
silence filled the room, the old man bowed his head. the cage rattle back to town, but brother ira was dead. oh, the choir missed him for awhile. but soon he was forgotten. a few church members watch the door but the old man entered nought. and far away his voice is sweet where he sings to his hearts desire. where there are no church comittees or fashionable choirs.
We all know people like brother ira. let's make thier last years here on earth as pleastent as possible.
5 comments:
Did you get it all memorized! :)
I memorized it!!
That wasnt the right words td Bro. Ira
This is good however alot of spelling errors and a bit off from how it is suppose to go. I will post the actual one here with errors corrected. Feel free to re-post in place if needed.
'Twas a stylish congregation; why you could see they had been around. They had the biggest pipe organ, of any church in town. And over in the corner sat old Brother Ira. Who insisted every Sunday, on singing in the choir. The choir stormed and blustered, for Brother Ira sang to slow. And he used the tunes in vogue, a hundred years ago. At last the storm cloud burst! The church was told in vine, that Brother Ira must stop his singing, or the choir was going to resign.
So the Pastor called into the vestry room some influential members (who subscribed more than they paid). So after asking God's guidance, in a printed prayer or two, they put their heads together, to decide just what to do. They thought, and debated, and suggested, until at last! Dear Brother York (who made a million in the sudden rise of pork) arose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Ira, and proceed to rake him widely for messing up the choir.
So, one afternoon at four, three men in stylish carriage rode up to Ira's door. They found the choir's trouble sitting there in an old arm chair. Where the summers golden sun beam, lay upon his snow white hair. He was singing, Rock of Ages, in a voice soft and low. The angels understood him, that’s all he cared to know.
Said York, “Were here dear brother, with the vester’s accusation's, to discuss a little matter that upsets the congregation. Now we don’t want any singing, except for what we brought, the newest tunes are all arranged, and the old ones stand for naught. So we've decided, are you listening dear brother? You must stop your singing! You are messing up our choir!”
The old man raised his head, a sign that he did hear. And on his cheek three men caught, a glitter of tear. His feeble hand pushed back locks white as silky snow. He answered the committee in a voice soft and low. “I have sung the songs of David, nearly eighty years” said he. “They've been my staff and comfort, all along life’s dreary way. I’m sorry if I've disturbed the choir. I guess I was doing wrong. But when my heart is filled with praise, I can’t keep back a song! I wonder, if beyond the tide, that’s breaking at my feet, in that far off heavenly mansion, where my master I shall meet. I wonder if I tried to sing the songs of God up higher. I wonder if they will church me, for singing in heavens choir.”
Silence filled the room, the old man bowed his head. The carriage rattled back to town, but Brother Ira, was dead. Oh, the choir missed him for a while, but soon he was forgotten. A few church members watched the door, but the old man entered not. And far away his voice is sweet, where he sings his heart’s desire. Where there are no church committees, and no fashionable choirs.
Thanks!
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