I love old things. I'm a sucker for flea markets and antique malls. I can't help myself.
Books, clothes, glassware and music... I just love the old (current term is vintage) things.
With all of those things I've mentioned, I also love old hymns.
Those hymns bring back memories of those who have gone on before...
of Evie Williams and her love of hats,
of Mr. Burrows and his warm smile,
and of a small country church in Clinton, AR.
Those hymns remind me of hot camp meeting nights,
of tambourines and a passionately played piano,
of hand-clapping and toe tapping,
and of bobby pins and liberally used cologne.
The sounds of those hymns recall to mind,
the tinny notes played during the introduction of "I'll fly away",
the enthusicastic wheezing of an old organ during "Just over in the Gloryland",
and the whole-hearted singing of a congregation during, "At the Cross."
Yes, I love the old hymns.
They feel me with a heavenly hope.
The same hope once felt by the elders of old.
The divine pull towards a home on another shore.
Until that blessed hope is realized, I will continue singing,...
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