"Cathedral in the Pines" genre: Spiritual Country
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	Peter says: "It was a Sunday morning and my family had gone to church, but I couldn't resist the lure of fresh snow under the bright morning sky. Deep into the woods, I realized I hadn't missed church after all.
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	Lyrics I am a Sunday morning pilgrim And I know He'll understand Why I choose to come to worship In a church not made by hand Where the wind sings with the choir Its voice it soars so high And each sermon is as different as the sky The clouds had been at work again, they'd labored through the night And left the morning sun to tend a carpet soft and white A chorus line of playful pine was dancing in the breeze Which rose and fell in rhythm breathing life into the trees Some still wrestled with the snow, their bodies bent and hurt Others dropped white handkerchiefs and waved as if to flirt Some were lost in love's embrace and some had knelt to pray And several leaned into the wind as if to point the way I took their lead and glided down a trail of silhouettes Through rows of ballerinas taking turns at pirouettes And if they dangled scarves of green they'd knit for me to wear I'd thank them with a smile and brush the needles from my hair And if the branches blocked my way like hands held to my face I understood why they'd be loath to share this sacred place For there was magic in the air and I was in its spell And I was just a stranger then, but now they know me well A snow white burst of incense settled slowly to the ground Sun through stained glass windows cast a thousand shades of brown And though I saw no altar nor could hear a church bell chime A service had begun in the cathedral of the pines How long it was I lingered there I cannot rightly say So rarely has a sermon touched my soul in such a way And as the congregation drifted back into the glen I noted every turn that I might find my way again Of all the great cathedrals men have built to sing God's praise None can match the splendor His own handiwork displays And all the words of learned men that ring through hallowed halls Are no more than a whisper in a church not bound by walls I am a Sunday morning pilgrim And I know He'll understand Why I choose to come to worship In a church not made by hand Where the wind sings with the choir Its voice it soars so high And each sermon is as different as the sky

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