God's Own Singer

Straight backed chair and a table

Where he sits when he's able

To walk over from bedridden misery

To record from his thoughts

On a worn out table cloth

Where he'd been while his mind breaks sleeplessly

Though his body's bent with age

You know, he's still out on that stage

Entertaining all his friends

That pause to greet him at the door

Forty nine years out on the road

Many nights he'd saved a soul

Now he sits and waits to claim his own reward

God's own singer of songs is going home

Though he's poor, might be the richest one you know

All this pain will set him free

Wash his soul and cleanse him clean

God's own singer of songs is going home

God's own singer of songs is going home