Come To Me

Come to me; oh come to me.
There’s a Sunday morning rain a-threatening.
When these tear drops start to fall, there’s no one I can call,
So come to me; oh come to me.

I will sing You a love song, put on a pot of tea.
I will light the fire, if You’ll only come to me.
I will lay in Your arms, and hang on every word.
Oh why’s it so absurd to think that You might come to me.
O come to me.

I am leaving Los Angeles behind;
Driving North to see what I can find.
In the yellow roadside flowers and rolling hills of velvet,
Like newborn puppies sleeping in the sun.
You come to me.

In the layers of rock and stone,
By the pelting rains and ripping winds exposed,
As stripes on the hillside like those on Calvary,
You come to me; You come to me.

I turn off the beaten track.
Down a mud wash I walk, trailing rabbits and a startled
Sparrow hawk; although they flee from me,
Lord Jesus, You come to me.

As the Son who shed His blood on Calvary,
You wash this muddy Sunday off of me.
You come to me.

As the Son who shed His blood on Calvary,
You wash this muddy Sunday off of me.