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, he might be
The richest one you know
All his pain will set him free
Wash his soul and cleans him clean
God's own singer of songs is going home
God's own singer of songs is going home
