Singing the Songs of Zion

There is a place in the center of town,
Where you can go to hear a sweet sound.
There.
There next to the street lamp
Between two houses of worship
Sits one who has no home on this earth.
His army green cap keeps his bald head warm.
His snow white beard, cut short,
Cannot keep the cold from nipping at his cheeks.
His shoes they are brown with holes in the soles.
His jacket is green and as wrinkled as his leathery face.
His pants they are worn almost through.
He sits there each day, his accordian in hand
Playing the songs of Zion.
His seat, it is low
A flat peach colored cushion
On top of an old grey milk crate.
He plays the songs of Zion.
His hands squeeze the box as his fingers they play,
Singing the songs of Zion.
"When sailing on life's stormy sea,"
Singing the songs of Zion.
"'Tis solace to my soul to know God hears my secret prayer."
Singing the sweet strains of Zion.
"Though hard to you this journey may appear,"
Singing the songs of Zion with his accordian rare.
"All is well! All is well!"