| I didn’t even know the man
|
| I didn’t know the man himself
|
| Even though his music filled my life
|
| As it has so many others
|
| I knew that he had died that week
|
| After fighting death a year or more
|
| But I had had a rule before
|
| That funerals were a waste of flowers
|
| But something said I had to go
|
| To be a witness to his gift of love
|
| A man who never once gave up on life
|
| Until death took him in his tracks
|
| The people stood around the church
|
| Ten thousand people there they say, or more
|
| Black and white, rich and poor
|
| Together they were there to say farewell
|
| In New York City it had rained that day
|
| The streets were silver and the sky was gray
|
| But in the church the music soared and sang
|
| And seemed to fill the air with shining sun
|
| The man was a hero
|
| He played the music of our souls
|
| He knew that we all have in us
|
| A place where beauty always grows
|
| Outside in the streets again
|
| The people wandered through the falling rain
|
| They waved their hands and dried their tears
|
| And turned to go about their lives again
|
| But none of us will be the same
|
| If we hear the things his music says
|
| That loving is the gift of life
|
| And making music was his way of love
|
| The man was a hero
|
| He played the music of our souls
|
| He knew that we all have in us
|
| A place where beauty always grows |