What is heaven like, Mama? Are streets really paved with gold?
Is it a certain truth, Mama, that we never shall grow old?
Are children allowed to romp and play, and laugh out loud up there?
Can I pick the flowers, Mama, to weave garlands for my hair?
I won't be sick when I get to heaven, of that I'm truly certain;
for it won't be heaven at all, Mama, if I can't leave behind the hurting.
I wonder what Jesus looks like; do you think he'll smile at me?
Will he mind too much, Mama, if I've a cushion under my knees
when I bow before the throne where he and God are sitting;
You know, those golden bricks are hard, Mama, but a cushion might not be fitting.
The minister said to me, Mama, that I should have no fear,
for whatever I needed to make me happy will be provided there.
But he doesn't understand, Mama, that I've never left your side;
and heaven seems so far away; as far as the sky is wide.