Kentucky Rose en Michael W. Smith

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 hands --- a farmer's clothes
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 soothing 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's 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 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 is the spirit of Kentucky Rose...
They say it is the spirit of Kentucky Rose...
I believe it is the spirit of Kentucky Rose