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A farmer and a teacher, a hooker and a preacher |
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Ridin' on a midnight bus bound for Mexico |
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One's headed for vacation, one for higher education |
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An' two of them were searchin' for lost souls |
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That driver never ever saw the stop sign |
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An' eighteen wheelers can't stop on a dime |
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There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway |
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Why there's not four of them, Heaven only knows |
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I guess it's not what you take when you leave this world behind you |
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It's what you leave behind you when you go |
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That farmer left a harvest, a home and eighty acres |
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The faith an' love for growin' things in his young son's heart |
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An' that teacher left her wisdom in the minds of lots of children |
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Did her best to give 'em all a better start |
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An' that preacher whispered, "Can't you see the Promised Land?" |
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As he laid his blood-stained bible in that hooker's hand |
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There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway |
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Why there's not four of them, Heaven only knows |
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I guess it's not what you take when you leave this world behind you |
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It's what you leave behind you when you go |
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That's the story that our preacher told last Sunday |
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As he held that blood-stained bible up for all of us to see |
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He said, "Bless the farmer, and the teacher, an' the preacher |
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Who gave this Bible to my mamma, who read it to me |
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There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway |
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Why there's not four of them, now I guess we know |
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It's not what you take when you leave this world behind you |
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It's what you leave behind you when you go |
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There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway |
