| The night sometimes seems dangerous
|
| We wonder what it hides
|
| It sometimes brings us closer
|
| And forever changes our lives
|
| Strangers talk in open ways
|
| We cannot always understand
|
| Who have not felt the loving touch
|
| And seen the guiding hand
|
| I was brought up near the riverside
|
| In a quiet Irish town
|
| An eighteen-month-old baby
|
| The night they laid my daddy down
|
| Everyone knew everyone
|
| And everybody else as well
|
| My home was filled with sorrow then
|
| Too much for me to tell
|
| The man is alive
|
| Alive and breathing
|
| It’s taken me so long to see
|
| The man is alive
|
| Alive and breathing
|
| The man is alive in me
|
| We stood among the totem poles
|
| Under the Canadian moonlight
|
| She told me all about her childhood days
|
| On the Vancouver mountain side
|
| An eighteen-month-old baby
|
| The night her daddy passed away
|
| We stood and watched the darkness
|
| Flowing into the light of day
|
| The night sometimes seems dangerous
|
| We wonder what it hides
|
| It sometimes brings us closer
|
| And forever changes our lives
|
| Strangers talk in open ways
|
| We cannot always understand
|
| But we begin to feel the loving touch
|
| And see the guiding hand
|
| The man is alive
|
| Alive and breathing
|
| It’s taken me so long to see
|
| The man is alive
|
| Alive and breathing
|
| The man is alive in me |