My Father owns the cattle on a thousand hills
He knows every bird of the mountains
At His voice, the fierce ocean storm has been stilled
His love is an endless, ceaseless fountain.
Every hair on my head has been numbered
He calls each of the stars by their names
Loving God neither sleeps nor slumbers,
When I sin, He looks not with disdain.
He calls me His child,
How can that be?
Why doesn’t He throw me away?
He knows I’m of dust,
He made me, you see,
But now I’ve been turned into clay.
Clay must be thrown
Pressed and worked out
Shaped and molded just so
Mysterious to me
What use He’ll allow
Lord mold me, I want to be Yours.