| |
| I often stand at my window |
| and view the church
across the way |
| And thank the Lord for leading me |
| each moment of the
day. |
| I'm ever mindful of God's love |
| and of His matchless
grace. |
| And trust that I might faithful be |
| until I see His face. |
| I think of all the little tots |
| as precious as my own |
| And pray that I can lead them to |
| the Heavenly Father's
throne. |
| I'm ever mindful of the teenaged group |
| so full of pep and
vim |
| I pray to God that I may help |
| to keep them close to
Him. |
| I thank Him for the grown-ups, too, |
| who labor here with
me |
| That we may share God's riches |
| throughout Eternity. |
| |
| I look out my window |
| and see the church
across the way |
| And I thank God that he chose me |
| to fill the pulpit
today. |
| I think of all the happiness we've shared; |
| my people and I |
| Then I'm reminded of sad times, too, |
| when I have wanted to
cry. |
| Sometimes its such a friendly place, |
| God's presence is so
near. |
| Then comes a cold indifference |
| that grips my heart
with fear. |
| Sometimes our fellowship is gay; |
| we share a laugh or
two. |
| Then cheer the broken-hearted |
| as the Lord would
have us do. |
| There's always great rejoicing |
| when a soul is born
anew |
| And solemn understanding as |
| a new grave we must
view. |
| |
| From my window I look out to |
| the church across the
way |
| And I see my little office where |
| I slip away to pray. |
| I've walked the path so many times |
| that leads to its
doors |
| It's walls are so familiar; |
| its ceilings and its
floors. |
| I know each nook and corner |
| of the church across
the road |
| I even know how much it cost |
| to build this fine
abode. |
| I know the hours of toil |
| in the sunshine and
the rain |
| The never-ceasing efforts |
| in spite of aches and
pains. |
| I know because I helped to build |
| the church across the
way |
| And many times felt weary |
| at the closing of the
day. |
| As from my window I behold |
| the building over
there |
| I humbly bow my head and heart |
| and whisper up a
prayer |
| That our people might be conscious |
| of the work that's
still undone |
| In telling those around us of |
| God's gift -- His
precious Son. |
| |
| I see it as a lighthouse |
| for souls still lost
in sin |
| A haven for the weary |
| who desire a new life
to begin. |
| Oh, may we never feel, dear Lord, |
| that we have done our
bit |
| Or be incomplacently content |
| on cushioned pews to
sit. |
| But may our eyes be fixed on Thee; |
| our thoughts on
Things above |
| As together in our church we labor |
| in Christian
fellowship and love. |
