Kentucky Rose

Sun comes up-Sunday morn
On the little church where I been since I was born
And there he stood-a hearty smile
You could hear his voice ringing out for a country mile
And he could place your mind at ease
With his tenderness and a heart
That aimed to please
A pauper’s hand-a farmer’s clother
Just a preacher man we called Kentucky Rose
He worked the soul like he worked the land
He spoke in ways that anyone could understand
Simple words of simple faith
And when it came to love
He would go out of his way
A helping hand, a snoothing chat
And he practiced what he preached-imagine that
And as far as kindness goes
There was none compared to old Kentucky Rose
Evening stroll ‘cross Shyler bridge
That’s when he saw the boy
Trapped below that rocky ridge
He knew the danger he would face
But it’s as if he saved the child
Only to take his place
For on that ridge of stone and ice
Kentucky met his maker in a sacrifice
Why God he’s gone
God only knows
Maybe for the company of his Kentucky Rose
So peaceful in his Sunday best
He was buried on a hill and laid to rest
When people heard, they came in droves
To say their last good-byes to sweet Kentucky Rose
Now, on that hill
one flower grows
They say it’s the sprit of old Kentucky Rose...

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