(as yet untitled)

I stand there feeling a little out of place,
wearing a shirt with a few more wrinkles than my face.
And they look at me as though I'd committed a crime
-I haven't been to worship in the longest time.
I quietly enter and slide into a pew
and do all the things I see the others do.
But something's missing -what, I do not know.
God left this place a long time ago.
--But I feel Him when I go on back outside.
--And I see Him in all the places I ride.
--I travel on this big black beast of chrome.
--Waiting for the father to call His children home.
There are others there beneath that cross and steeple
who are ignored by all the other people.
They feel there's something lost that can't be found,
wondering where they'll find the holy ground.
--But they feel Him when they go out again.
--And they see the reasons the Lord has said, "Amen."
--They travel on with no real place to roam.
--Waiting for the father to call His children home.
And the others- He refers to them as goats.
In their Sunday dress and nice warm winter coats.
They drop change for the lowly and think they've done their part,
never knowing what was in that stranger's heart.
But they go to church -and thus, are better than you,
as they put the backs of others in their pew.
They feel only what they're told to feel,
forgetting Jesus was a rebel -and He's real.
--They'll travel in their winter coats on a road paved with gold.
--Never hearing the shephard call His sheep in from the cold.
--But I feel Him no matter where I may roam.
--Blessing the day my Father calls me home.
Bless'd be the name of He who carries us all home.