Written by Mark Bishop
They rushed in… to the prodigal’s father,
Said “We have seen him. He’s walking this way.
Should we stop him? …tell him he is not welcome?”
But the father pushed through them, they heard him say…
No, it’s my turn… to stand at the gate;
see the look on his face… at last hold him close.
It’s my turn… to wrap him in love;
hand him new garments… it’s my turn,
to welcome him home.
The word doesn’t give… clues to the story,
who may have died first, the father or son.
If the son left… and found himself waiting
In heaven recalling the love he was shown…
Then one day… they’d bring him the message.
They’d say “We have seen him… walking this way.
Soon your father… will be greeted by angels.”
But the son pushed right through them, and they heard him say…
No, it’s my turn… to stand at the gate;
see the look on his face… at last hold him close.
It’s my turn… to wrap him in love;
hand him new garments… it’s my turn,
to welcome him home.
Some day I’ll open my eyes in heaven! On that day… someone will say…
No, it’s my turn… to stand at the gate;
see the look on his face… at last hold him close.
It’s my turn… to wrap him in love;
hand him new garments… it’s my turn,
to welcome him home.
It’s my turn to welcome him home… It’s my turn to welcome him home.