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 [2]