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I read that Norman Rockwell died, I didn't even know him |
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But I remember visiting Stockbridge, the town he made his home in |
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I remember how those people glowed, just because they had a chance to share |
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An old story or two about a man who'd painted America there |
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And when a hand reaches out and brushes lives |
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The spirit of the painter never dies |
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Oh beautiful for spacious skies, oh misery the guns |
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That bloodied amber waves of grain in 1861 |
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At a hundred years of suffering to a movement and sin |
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You have the most amazing soul who said I have a dream |
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And when a voice rises up to challenge lies |
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The spirit of the speaker never dies |
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Now I won't be a president, and I can't be a king |
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But I have these hands to reach for you, we have a voice to sing |
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And I'm surely not an artist with a canvas or a brush |
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But I paint these songs with colors that remind me of your touch |
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An American in Paris wrote a Rhapsody in Blue |
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And passed away at 38 before his time came due |
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Some felt cheated of a gift so prematurely taken |
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But I believe we were born again, and often reawakened |
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When a song touches something deep inside |
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The spirit of the singer never dies |
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Now I lay no claim to genius when I'm playing this guitar |
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Sometimes I'm lost for words just trying to describe the way we are |
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But my book is filled with sketches made of dreams and prayers and friends |
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And I draw these songs with images of seeing you again |
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I read that Norman Rockwell died, I never even knew him |
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But it wasn't hard to see the love in what the man was doing |
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But you don't have to be a genius or the leader of the band |
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Just as long as while you're on this earth you do the best you can |
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And though the road may be filled with turns and bends |
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The journey of your spirit never ends |
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