Thousands of texts and millions of words
In churches and chapels each week are heard
But how many sleeping souls are stirred
Every Sunday morning?
The preacher faces the wooden pews
The message is stale, like yesterday's news
The spark of his faith he tries to infuse
Every Sunday morning.
New forms of worship, new hymns of praise
'What more can I do, O God?' he prays
To capture the mind that always strays
Every Sunday morning?
Aware of the yawns and nods, he tries
The embers of truth to re-vitalise
To give folk the joy that faith supplies
Every Sunday morning
'Increase your own faith', the good Lord said
'Then my word, like the mustard seed, will spread'
I listen to sermons as heavy as lead
Every Sunday morning.
If you can enthuse, you'll be listened to
And your flock will want what they see in you
The zeal of my early church renew
Every Sunday morning'
