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