I dreamed of God on Signal Hill.
The sound of cannon muffled.
Mute as those three dead.
Their fellow soldiers dig, but not deep.
 
On the red stained grass I slept.
Dew covered me as early I awakened;
My rest disturbed by dreams shallow. 

The metal detector said something was there.
Digging the soil in expectation I found
The thing and things.
"Who wore the belt buckle?" I wondered! 

 Confederate I knew.
What soldier fired the bullet?
Union I could see. 

Again, there was something.
I dug deeper.
Rusty, sharp, pointed.. .three hand-made nails.
Roman. 

My dream continued three nights.
In the early day came the Bright light.
A Garden arose on Signal Hill.
I dreamed of a Seed, left behind as unneeded.

 The Gardener said to me, "Water".
When I awoke, He was gone; and,
My tears, as from one martyred, watered that Seed. 

On soil where rust speaks of the past,
Sleep is over on Signal Hill.
And in the valley of red earth,
The Seed has arisen.

 Once again, sound is heard...
Like the cannon's roar.
A glorious Anthem...
Saints singing on Signal Hill.

The above poetrry was written by our resident minister and India Missionary for the Celebration of our 50th year as a congregation.