this mornin the pews were hay bales the pulpit a saddle thrown over a stall the floor just a carpet of sawdust the babtistry just a rusty ol traun there were no stepals there were no hymnals but heaven came down there were no suits just worn out boots standin on holy ground i guess its true if even two are gathered in his hands thats where jesus is somewhere they were gathered and prayin their alter a footlocker thrown in the sand sundays at home just a memory but there in that tent they still felt his hand there were no stepals there were no hymnals but heaven came down there were no suits just worn out boots standin on holy ground i guess its true if even two are gathered in his hands thats where jesus is on an airplane or this old bus in a silence he always meets us where there s stepels where there s no hymnals heaven comes down in our sunday shoes or in our cowboy boots it is all holy ground i guess its true if even two are gathered in his hands thats where jesus is this is where jesus is