| Her little eyes looked up to the evening sky
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| As twilight spread across her sweet face she wondered why
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| She turned to me to ask who made it so So sure that I would know
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| Who made the moon, who paints the sky
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| Who hangs the stars and turns them on each night
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| Who tells the rose it’s time to bloom
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| How do Junebugs know it’s June
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| Dad, who made the moon
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| As that little girl grew up to discover life
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| She found that people’s words could cut deeper than a knife
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| But somehow hers were always used for good
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| I guess she understood
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| Who made the moon, who paints the sky
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| Who hangs the stars and turns them on each night
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| Who fills the hearts, that have no room
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| With shooting stars and toy balloons
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| Dad, who made the moon
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| And who decides who gets to live
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| And who decides its time to die
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| And who decides the ones you love
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| Don’t get to say goodbye
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| Now I sit alone and search the evening sky
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| I’d give everything I’ll ever own for just one more night
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| To hold her close and share the mystery
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| And hear her asking me Who made the moon, who paints the sky
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| Who hangs the stars and turns them on each night
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| Who shows the world how to play in tune
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| She got her answers way too soon
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| She knows who made the moon
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| Who made the moon, who paints the sky
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| Who hangs the stars and turns them on each night
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| How can I fill this empty room
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| Why’d she have to leave so soon
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| God, who made the moon |