I don't know the kind of home The father will provide. I'm sure Al's got a barn, a corral, And lots of room to ride. I see him leaned against the tree of life At the shores of the crystal sea Sitting with his hat pulled low And a guitar upon his knee. The saints are gathered there Listening to his simple song-- Elwood, Edna, and smiling Jack And maybe King David playing along. For some Heaven is no work, But if we have to take a turn, I hope they let him currycomb The white horse used for Jesus' return.
Al's at home, at home on God's range. In his art, the deer, and children, and ghost barns, And farmers, and pioneers, and ranchers, And vistas, and horses, and cowboys, And the buffalo roam. From Al I never heard a discouraging word. His skies are not cloudy With tears or fears, With disappointment or heartache, With confusion or doubt, With pain or sickness, With need or loss, No, his skies are not cloudy All day, every day, Forever.