Cathedral of the Open Road

I don't wear my Sunday best. Or sit in the pew like all the rest.

But I talk to God on an old dirt road. With the crickets

singing and the pines bowing low. My God, a steeple ain't

got a bell. But I feel his presence mighty well. In the thunder's

roar. And the robin's song. And the grace that keeps me

pushing on. Yeah, I'm saved by the light of a midnight

moon. Washed clean in a creek bank rain. My cathedral's the

sky, my hymn's the wind. On this eternal highway,