| There’s a little grave on the green hillside
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| That lies to the morning sun
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| And the wayworn feet often wander there
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| When the cares of the day are done
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| We sometimes sit in the twilight fall
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| And talk of a far off land
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| And I sometimes feel in the twilight there
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| The touch of a vanished hand
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| Grave on the green hillside
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| Grave on the green hillside
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| In the years to come we will calmly sleep
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| In a grave on the green hillside
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| And this land is full of these little graves
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| In the valleys, plains, and hills
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| There’s an angel, too, for each little grave
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| An angel sufficient, Bill
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| I know not how, but I sometimes think
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| That they lead us with gentle hands
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| And a whisper falls on a willing ear
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| From the shore of a far off land
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| Grave on the green hillside
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| Grave on the green hillside
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| In the years to come we will calmly sleep
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| In a grave on the green hillside
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| And these little graves are but wayside marks
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| That point to a far off land
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| And they speak to the soul of a better day
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| Of a day that’s near at hand
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| Though we first must walk through this darksome veil
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| Yet Christ will be our guide
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| We will reach the shore of a far off land
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| Through a grave on a green hillside
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| Grave on the green hillside
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| Grave on the green hillside
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| In the years to come we will calmly sleep
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| In a grave on the green hillside |