I know where I'm going, And I know who's going with me, I know why there's music in the summer morning I found a wealth of gold, And of silver I have plenty, I found a light to guide me When my way gets dark and stormy. Where are you going? Who will walk beside you? When the night is gloomy Where is the light to guide you? And where's your gold and your Silver brightly shinning? Who writes the music In the quiet summer morning? I'm going where He goes, And He'll be there beside me The love for which He died Is all I need to quide me, And He's my gold and my Silver brightly shining He writes the music In the quiet summer morning I know where I'm going But where are you going?
Scottish Folk Song, adapted, B. Fidler, arr., Courtney
He knoweth the way that I take; when He hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold. ....Job 23: 10
We Shall Shine As The Stars
We may tarry a while here as strangers, Unnoticed by those who pass by, But the Savior will crown us in glory, To shine as the stars in the sky We may never be rich in earth's treasures, Nor rise on the ladder of fame, But the saints will at last be rewarded, Made rich in Immanuel's Name We may live in a tent or a cottage, And die in seclusion alone, But the Father who seeth in secret, Remembers each one of His own We shall shine as the stars of the morning, With Jesus the Crucified One, We shall rise to be like Him forever, Eternally shine as the sun
He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son. Rev 21: 7
Second Sight
I cannot weave a tapestry, Whose vibrant colors gleam, But I can thread a needle, And sew a little seam I have no silver notes to turn Into a lovely song, But I can sit and listen, To the tune and hum along I cannot preach a sermon, To edidy the year, But I can say a little prayer, The Lord can always hear I cannot climb a mountain, All wreathed in clouds of white, But I can walk a woodland path, And feel my heart grow light
I cannot paint a masterpiece, I cannot carve in stone, But there is something I can do, That is my very own, For though I do not weave or climb, Nor paint, nor carve, or sing, Somehow I find a bit of God, In every living thing ....Grace E Easley
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