Tin was a small boy
Looking at the mountains
They were his one joy
To be near the mountains
At night in his dreams
He would stand at the top
The rice fields, they seemed
Like quilts from the tip-top
His father worked there
Planting in the rice fields
And all that he cared
Was growing in the fields
But Tin was dreaming
Looking at the mountains
And he was longing
To be near the mountains |
His father told him
He would be a farmer
Tin thought his life grim
To be just a farmer
So when Tin grew tall
He worked in the rice fields
And he felt so small
While working in the fields
And then a man came
To Tin�s little village
He wasn�t the same
As men in this village
He had a story
Of a Man who loved all
And for a Glory
Of a death to save all
And Tin, he met him
Bringing in his harvest
And on some small whim
Spoke of a great harvest |
Spoke of a Mountain
Rock of life to lean on
And of a Fountain
With a joy to live on
He said �There�s not much
Growing on the mountains
But in the fields, such
More life than the mountains.�
And Tin, he believed
In such a great harvest
And so he received;
Was part of that great harvest
So Tin, he worked there
In the fields of plenty
But rice was nowhere
But souls, there were plenty. |
