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 cleanse him clean   God's own singer of songs is going home   God's own singer of songs is going home