Friday, 9 August 2013


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,