Christmas Eve, 2011

It’s cold outside (sometimes)
and it might snow (sometimes)
I feel the wind (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

As we grow old (sometimes)
we drift apart (sometimes)
a thousand miles (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming.

Memories stir. I hear a song
that makes me smile, and I start singing.

I don’t know where these winds will blow
but I believe that Sunday’s coming.

—

They count on us (sometimes)
though we are strangers (sometimes)
far from home (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

And travel’s tough (sometimes)
and there’s no room (sometimes),
we’re all alone (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

And we take comfort where we can,
and when it comes it ends up being

all we need. Sometimes a few warm words
are all it takes. Sunday’s coming.

—

Lately I feel (sometimes)
I've worked so hard (sometimes)
the whole night through (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming,

Out in the fields (sometimes),
out in the dirt (sometimes),
out with the beasts (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming.

I want to hear what shepherds hear,
and see the things that they’ve been seeing.

I want to stand next to the choir
and hear the song of Sunday's coming.

—

We've come this far (sometimes)
from distant lands (sometimes)
to see a child's eyes.
Sunday's coming.

And we've brought gifts (sometimes)
fit for a king (sometimes)
into this country barn.
Sunday's coming.

I want to see what wise men see.
I want to go where they are going.

I want to know the light that leads
to Christmas time and Sundays coming.

from Stillwater Symposia