| My father’s body lies beneath the snow
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| High on a hill in Holmes County, Ohio
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| From there you can look out across the fields
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| A farmer guides his horses home as day to darkness bends and finally yields
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| Dad’s gravestone holds the words «Be Still My Soul»
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| A song we sang together long ago
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| And there were times we even shared one hymnbook
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| His right hand and my left hand side-by-side holding pages of music
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| But now his hands hold nothing but the earth
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| Hands that held me moments after my birth
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| And so we must all finally surrender
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| As we release our grip upon whatever we hold dear and call familiar
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| My father’s body lies beneath the snow
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| And I’m still learning how to let him go
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| I’ve come to know him better since he’s gone
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| And often wondered if or how I could’ve been a different better son
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| My father’s body lies beneath the snow
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| Sometimes on Christmas Eve that’s where I go
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| I hear faint Christmas bells from far away
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| Ring out all the unspoken words I’ve never found within myself to say |