Defeated by Time - A sonnet

One day I saw a pretty church of stone,
The door was red, the latch was made of gold;
Around the doorway , ivy once had grown
The peeling paint gave word that it was old.
The window frames were made of polished oak.
I pushed the door and tried the rusty handle,
The door swung open with a painful croak;
I struck a match and lit my half-burned candle.
The floor was caked with dirt, the walls were bare,
There on one wall a crucifix was hung:
All had become a dusty spiders’ lair
This empty church where hymns had once been sung.
No priest in sight, nor joyous congregation,
It’s but a scene of ghostly desolation.