My Home

Jesus, who was a carpenter,

Two thousand years has given

Building a dwelling place for me

There where He lives in heaven.

Think of how perfect it must be,

Built by the Lord I love,

Built so this blood bought child of His

Can live with Him above.

Then when He calls, “My child, come home -

My arms are opened, waiting,”

Weep not for me, but rather see

A day of celebrating.

By Barbara C. Ryberg