| He was her man and she was his wife
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| And late one winter night
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| He knelt by her as she gave birth
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| But it wasn’t his child, it wasn’t his child
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| Yet still he took him as his own
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| And as he watched him grow
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| It brought him joy
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| But it wasn’t his child, it wasn’t his child
|
| And like a father he was strong and kind and good
|
| And I believe he did his best
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| It wasn’t easy for him but he did all he could
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| His son was different from the rest
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| It wasn’t his child, it wasn’t his child
|
| And when the boy became a man
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| He took his father’s hand
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| And soon the world would all know why
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| It wasn’t his child, it wasn’t his child
|
| And like a father he was strong and kind and good
|
| And I believe he did his best
|
| It wasn’t easy for him but he did all he could
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| He grew up with his hands in wood
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| And he died with his hands in wood
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| He was God’s child, he was God’s child
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| He was her man and she was his wife
|
| And late one night
|
| He knelt by her as she gave birth
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| But it wasn’t his child, it was God’s child |