Long before the dawn, before the rooster has his say,
The farmer and the farmerís wife begin another day.
She will wash the dishes and he will milk the cows,
And like every spring for forty years, it's time to hitch the plow.
Now he knows every furrow like the back of his hand.
Somehow they've made a liviní by liviní off the land.
It aint nothing fancy. It don't look like much to some.
But these fields can feed a family before the winter's come.
For thirty-nine harvest times the farmerís wife has prayed,
That the man she's always loved would go to church with her one day.
But he's as stubborn as the mule that helps him work the summer fields.
She prays for grace, and prays for rain, and the crops that they will yield.
No one knows what's going on inside an old mans head,
But one October Sunday morning he got out of bed.
He put on his coat and tie and polished up his shoes.
The farmer joined the farmerís wife together on a pew.
That little congregation, they won't forget the day,
That he walked to the altar, and he knelt down to pray.
And like the leaves on the trees, the tears began to fall.
The seeds that she had planted had been growing after all.
Forty harvest times, forty crops that they had grown.
Forty years of Sundays she went to church alone.
But she won't see the autumn leaves the same way anymore.
It's the October harvest she's been waiting for.
If you have a little faith before you sow,
That seed below, youíll see it grow.
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