michael w. smith
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 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