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The church bell rings for morning mass,
The worn stone steps get fresh green grass.
I learn to let the seasons be,
They take the old and bring the new to me.
The wooden bench beside the gate,
Has watched a thousand faces wait.
The old red paint is now bright blue,
But who will sit there when it's through?
The old hillside sheds its pines,
New saplings climb in zigzag lines.
The river cuts a deeper bed,
But every bank grows green instead.
The church bell rings for morning mass,
The worn stone steps get fresh green grass.
A little piece of me is new,
And every old one will ring true.
The church bell rings for morning mass,
The worn stone steps get fresh green grass.
I learn to let the seasons be,
They take the old and bring the new to me.
The old hillside sheds its pines,
New saplings climb in zigzag lines.
The river cuts a deeper bed,
But every bank grows green instead.
The church bell rings for morning mass,
The worn stone steps get fresh green grass.
A little piece of me is new,
And every old one will ring true.
The church bell rings for morning mass,
The worn stone steps get fresh green grass.
I learn to let the seasons be,
They take the old and bring the new to me.
