Cowboys take time to go to church, In their worn-out boots and dusty shirts. They gather ‘round with humble hearts, Knowing well where their blessings start.
Out on the range, beneath the sky, They see God's handiwork up high. But come Sunday morn, they ride to town, To kneel before the Holy Crown.
They've seen the storms, the harshest lands, Yet place their lives in God's own hands. With faith as strong as the open plain, They bow their heads, call on His name.
They know the earth beneath their feet, Is not the end, but where they meet, The Lord who guides them every day, Through trials, troubles, come what may.
So cowboys take time, they make it right, To gather in the morning light. For in those pews, they find their grace, And in God's house, their rightful place.
They may be rough, they may be tough, But they know that faith’s enough. So with a prayer and a whispered hymn, They leave their burdens all to Him.
Out on the trail, they’ll ride again, But not alone, not now, not then. For in their hearts, the truth is sure, Cowboys who pray find peace that’s pure.
