| Seventy years ago, my father’s mother’s father
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| Led the clan of Nicholson
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| He and my great grandmother had four lovely daughters
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| And a strong and honest son
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| And they traveled Arkansas and Oklahoma
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| Building arbors made of vine
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| And the people of the town would come at sundown
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| Some to scoff and some to see what they would find
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| And the sisters dressed in white
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| And the family sang and prayed into the night
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| And they rode in a covered wagon
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| As they walked in holiness
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| And they lived and preached the power
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| And forgiveness of the Lord
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| Seventy years ago
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| Seventy years ago, there wasn’t much in preaching
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| But it never slowed them down
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| They loved the truth and all the hearts that He was reaching
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| And their eyes were on the crown
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| So they traveled Arkansas and Oklahoma
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| With a burning in their souls
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| And it drove them to their knees and to the next town
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| For the sake of a wealth they could not hold
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| And the sisters dressed in white
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| And the people sang and prayed into the night
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| And they rode in a covered wagon
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| As they walked in holiness
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| And they lived and preached the power
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| And forgiveness of the Lord
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| Seventy years ago
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| Sometimes I feel like a pale reflection
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| Living in the blessing they passed down
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| Some of whom have held me
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| Some never knew my name
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| But the secret has been found
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| And I want to give this to my children
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| And when I am very old
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| I hope there still will be a story worth the telling
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| Of seventy years ago
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| And they rode in a covered wagon
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| As they walked in holiness
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| And they lived and preached the power
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| And forgiveness of the Lord
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| Seventy years ago
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| Seventy years ago
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| Seventy years ago, my father’s mother’s father |