| When Papa was lyin' on his death bed
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| He told me a story I’ll never forget
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| He recalled when Mama and he were first wed
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| And when she first planted her small flower bed
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| He spoke of the first rose that bloomed in the spring
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| And how she cared for it when there was no rain
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| He told how the fragrance of the flowers
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| How she made her Bible marker from the first one that bloomed
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| He said of all the memories that I now hold
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| My favorite is her marker, the faded pressed rose
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| Papa’s been gone now just one year today
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| And I placed from Mama’s garden pretty flowers on her grave
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| I’m holdin' in my hand the first bloom she ever grow’d
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| From her Bible, the faded pressed rose
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| And now when I read from the good book they loved
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| The old home is filled with their spirit from above
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| And their memories cheer me through my lonely hours
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| When I remember all the love that they shared in the flower
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| Now the fondest of my memories that I now hold
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| Is the marker from her Bible, the faded pressed rose
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| The marker from Mama’s Bible, the faded pressed rose |