Michael W. Smith

Sun comes up - Sunday morn
On the little church where I been since I was born
And there he stood - a hearty smile
You could hear his voice ringing out for a country mile
And he could place your mind at ease
With his tenderness and a heart
That aimed to please
A pauper's hands - a farmer's clothes
Just a preacher man we called Kentucky rose
He worked the soul like he worked the land
He spoke in ways that anyone could understand
Simple words of simple faith
And when it came to love
He would go out of his way
A helping hand
A soothing chat
And he practiced what he preached - imagine that
And as far as kindness goes
There was none compared to old Kentucky rose