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High above the valley of Quito |
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An old man and his bride grow roses |
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Red and yellow, white and golden |
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To him they are precious as children |
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Their daughter, she moved to America |
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One more brick in the tower of Babel |
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She has a son that they've never seen at all |
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They're praying that they raised her well |
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On the mountain high |
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They will live and die |
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As time just slips away |
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And the children grow |
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In the God they know |
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As time just slips away |
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A man, his bride, his children, and his roses |
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Planted in faith, watered in tears |
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Honey, that's all they have and they're happier here |
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Than any of our friends back home |
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They met Jesus, and they really know Him |
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On the mountain high |
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They will live and die |
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As time just slips away |
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And the children grow |
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In the God they know |
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As time just slips away |
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Now I'm back at home, all alone, |
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And I'm trying to find my thoughts |
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That old man's so inspiring, |
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But the TV's always on |
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And the phone, it won't stop ringing, |
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These bills, they keep on screaming |
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They're paying for all the things |
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That we never really needed |
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And I wonder what he's doing right now |
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Maybe walking through his simple field, |
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And thinking about how |
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God has blessed him so |
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A man, his bride, his children, and his roses |
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On the mountain high |
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They will live and die |
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As time just slips away |
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And the children grow |
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In the God they know |
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As time just slips away... |