The Church of Many, The Few Who Give

The church has three hundred seats,
And on Sunday, they're all filled with feet,
Voices lifted, hearts in prayer,
More than two hundred souls are there.

The praise begins, the roof might rise,
For over three hundred hands touch the skies,
Songs of joy, a holy sound,
In worship, no one holds the ground.

Then comes the Word, the preacher speaks,
Two hundred ears attentive, meek,
Hungry hearts, they seek and yearn,
For wisdom, truth, and grace to learn.

But when the time for giving starts,
Where are those with open hearts?
Only forty-three stand tall,
Active members, that's all.

In moments grand, they all appear,
But in the call of giving, they disappear.
The church is full, but the truth is clear—
Only a few truly hold it dear.