| We will call this place our home,
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| The dirt in which our roots may grow.
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| Though the storms will push and pull,
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| We will call this place our home.
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| We’ll tell our stories on these walls.
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| Every year, measure how tall.
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| And just like a work of art,
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| We’ll tell our stories on these walls.
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| Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind.
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| Let our hearts, like doors, open wide, open wide.
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| Settle our bones like wood over time, over time.
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| Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine.
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| A little broken, a little new.
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| We are the impact and the glue.
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| Capable of more than we know,
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| We call this fixer upper home.
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| With each year, our color fades.
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| Slowly, our paint chips away.
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| But we will find the strength
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| And the nerve it takes
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| To repaint and repaint and repaint every day.
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| Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind.
|
| Let our hearts, like doors, open wide, open wide.
|
| Settle our bones like wood over time, over time.
|
| Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine.
|
| Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind.
|
| Let our hearts, like doors, open wide, open wide.
|
| Settle our bones like wood over time, over time.
|
| Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine.
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| Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine.
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| Smaller than dust on this map
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| Lies the greatest thing we have:
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| The dirt in which our roots may grow
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| And the right to call it home. |