It sits silently,
overlooking a now quite, blue lake
The headwaters of a river,
flowing into the unknown.
The bell no longer rings,
the choir no longer sings,
Yet a soft unimaginable aura,
encompasses the weathered steeple
As it points to the Heavens.

Fifty miles north of Skagway
facing the desolate and the unknown
A rustic church stands,
once a haven,
For those where prayers were quietly said
dreams imagined,
And plans made for the treacherous journey
into the gold fields of the
Mysterious Yukon.

Open now, only to the curious,
one can imagine the hopes and dreams
Of those who entered It's
"always open" doors.

Adventurers, miners, men and women,
seeking their fortune,
Hoping for a better life, for themselves
and for those they had left behind.
Each, now facing a new world of desolation
snow covered mountains, roaring rivers
And isolation.

As one of the curious,
I felt the emotions of those who had crossed
The worn threshold many years ago.
I dreamed as they had dreamed,
And as I looked Into the now empty chapel,
I heard a faraway voice silently whisper,
"please be with me God"
then a quiet gently reply,
"I am."

Cecil Simpson
San Diego, CA