| Turn up the lights so we can see
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| The red-head grandson on your knee
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| Better hold him while you can
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| He’ll be walking soon
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| This time next year you’ll want to take him
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| Down the old road behind your house
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| To show him the sun on the autumn fields
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| To smell the wind-blown alfalfa
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| To look out where the geese are rising
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| For their southern flight
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| Circling arrows in the sky
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| Above the ditches and the cottonwood
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| This time next year
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| There’ll be stories to tell
|
| And he will listen to you, quiet in your arms
|
| And there’ll be songs to sing him
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| While he goes to sleep
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| When we gather in your home
|
| This time next year
|
| The boy is laughing on your knee
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| Hold him up so we can see
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| Hold him high because we’re lifted
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| In his laughter
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| And in the gladness he has brought you
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| As you walk these heavy lives
|
| This time next year
|
| There’ll be stories to tell
|
| And he will listen to you, quiet in your arms
|
| And there’ll be songs to sing him
|
| While he goes to sleep
|
| When we gather in your home
|
| This time next year
|
| This time next year
|
| There’ll be stories to tell
|
| And he will listen to you, quiet in your arms
|
| And there’ll be songs to sing him
|
| While he goes to sleep
|
| When we gather in your home
|
| This time next year |