Kentucky Rose - 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 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…