Sunday’s here, it’s time for church
Your routine sharply honed
Out the door by five past ten
Alert and finely toned
Putting right your stack of sins
As you walk up the road
You’ll be ready for the start
Cause all your weeds are hoed.
Sitting in your special pew
Where you have sat for years
You know that if you had to move
You’d be beset with tears
It wouldn’t be the same, you fear
The blessings and the touch
Only happens in your pew
Elsewhere, not so much.
I’m sure that God’s not choosy
When visiting His flock
Not bound by where His creatures sit
Not tethered by the clock
The church of His beloved ones
Are equal in His sight
So open up yourselves to Him
Receive what He thinks right.
