The House of my Father lies on a lowly hill,
surrounded by verdant pastures and suns a’rising.
Where cherry blossom trees sway in the breeze,
and the darkness of dawn begins capsizing.

There is a warmth when one steps inside,
where candles burn for hours on end.
While the perfume of incense wafts to the rafters,
upon your knees you silently bend.

Kaleidoscopic lights glow brightly,
from the dusty windows of stained glass.
When the ominiferous notes of an organ play,
angelic voices meet trumpets of brass.

And all His guests come to life,
as though awakened from a fabulous dream.
To dine at the banquet in the House of my Father,
is not always what it seems.

As soon as it starts, the music stops;
it’s quiet, not a soul to be found.
Only for the melody of a morning rain,
the House is still once again, without a sound.