We have lived with rich and poor
In places some will not or can’t.
And found there joy, and doors
To life, and friends, and won’t
Forget the promise, one hundred-fold.
We need it dearly every time
We move again and say goodbye
And home becomes a house – again.
We do it all for Him.
And yet we know the cost is real,
That mingled joy of rootlessness.
But I have heard the king has rooms
And rooms and rooms and worlds.
Perhaps a place where mountains meet
The sea, a house with orchards on a hill.
Where there’s porch and pen and table
And paper and books, maybe some tea.
A pipe! And fire.
Yes, room to host and reminisce
(With friends and of course the King himself)
The glory that we saw
In our hundred fleeting homes.
Children born and born again,
The needy fed, the lost redeemed,
The straying won, the faithful trained.
A hundred tents of light
Soon dismantled yet again.
For the world was ours, but not quite yet.
We don’t yet know the fullness of
The joy, although we know the taste.
For each new place a portion sings
And each new move the old refrain:
The promises are coming true
Before our eyes – a hundred-fold!
And new creation, forever home.
Is coming, coming, like the dawn.
So let us drink and to the full
The joy of each new set of walls.
For it is fleeting like the fall
And shines unique, eternal.
Remember the talk of camels and tents?
And Shelby Park, and Kingston’s rooms
And Sarkenar or St James Court?
Yes, more to come, if grace allows
And we shall thank the king for each,
With faith and joy await to see
The next of our one hundred homes
That really are not ours at all.
The glory – they are forever ours,
Yet really are not ours at all.
Entrusted to the Dirt 