| Look upon your mother and the silver in her hair
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| Consider it a crown the holiest may wear
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| It ain’t easy raisin' babies when they grow like ragged weeds
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| It’s a miracle she carried any shred of sanity
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| But she read her stories and forgot the glory of a multitude of saints
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| With her mother with, and her medicine, and her absent vanity
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| Look upon your mother and the silver in her hair
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| Consider it a crown the holiest may wear
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| Behold the mark of her wisdom, make it your daily prayer
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| To look upon your mother and the silver in her hair
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| On the western side of the highway, near the feet of Tennessee
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| A woman like a pistol and half my family tree
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| When the circle grew by more than two, the sawmill could not buy
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| Everything you need with four mouths to feed, why, you’re barely gettin' by
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| Look upon your mother and the silver in her hair
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| Consider it a crown the holiest may wear
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| Behold the mark of her wisdom, the sign of trouble fair
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| To look upon your mother and the silver in her hair
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| Last night in my slumber came the matriarchs I miss
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| They said, «Do you wanna be anointed with age’s lasting kiss?»
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| They’re pulling out a token of the life you’ve fully lived
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| This core we share, unbroken, to you we freely give
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| Awoken in the morning, arisen from my bed
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| I found upon my pillow a single shining thread (Two, three, four)
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| Look upon your mother and the silver in her hair
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| Consider it a crown the holiest may wear
|
| Behold the mark of her wisdom, make it your daily prayer
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| To look upon your mother and the silver in her hair
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| Her hair, in her hair |