| She was born of missionaries somewhere overseas
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| And now it was that she was brought to me
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| Staring from her farmhouse porch and through a heavy rain
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| She says that inside she felt a change
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| The seed is for the field and the trough is for your hand
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| And this is something we can understand
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| The seed is for the field and the trough is for your hand
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| And this is something we can understand
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| But you feel something wrong
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| And you know what it is
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| And your father will never understand
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| But I can
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| I can pull you out
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| I can pull you out
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| Picture of St. Jude is on the candle that i burned
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| Saint of my lost causes and concerns
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| Alone and in my bedroom
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| My guitar and wooden chair
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| Play out all my thoughts until the end
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| The prayers go soft, you can feel them even more
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| As they echo down the hall and hardwood floor
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| The tubes sound warm and the instrument plays well
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| How long I have waited I can’t tell
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| How long I have waited I can’t tell |