by Bill Anderson

There's a place dear to me,
Where I'm longing to be,
With my friends at the old country church.
Where with mother we went,
And our Sundays were spent,
With our friends at the old country chruch.

Precious years of memories,
Oh, what joy they bring to me.
How I long once more to be,
With my friends at the old country church.

Sometimes in fond mem'ry my thoughts go back to the old country church that I attended as a boy.
You know it's kinda funny how we cling to old by-gone days and by-gone places, isn't it?

Why it seems like only yesterday that my mother took my childish hand in hers;
And led me slowly down that long winding path to hear the word of God.
And, I seem to sense his presence more strongly there than any place I've ever known.
There with the singin' of the birds and the humming of the bees,
I knew that God was surely there.
I knew it just as surely as if he'd laid his hand on my shoulder
And said, "Welcome to my house son".

Ah, but years have passed and times has brought many heartaches and many tears.
I've seen my mother pass onto the great beyond and many loved ones have followed.
And I'd seen them go with dispairing hearts and tear dimmed eyes.
And now in later days as I stroll along the grassy footpaths to the old church yard.
And I view the final resting place of my departed kin,
I'm consoled by the thought that their sleep is a happy one;
There in the place where God and men are one.
And once again I seem to hear the voice of our gentle Shepher saying,
"Welcome, welcome to my house, my son."

Precious years of memories,
Oh, what joy they bring to me.
How I long once more to be,
With my friends at the old country church.