Gray-haired and flint-eyed, his sunburned face lined
Grandpa was a man of few words
He had a way of not wanting to say
Any more than he thought would be heardThe long years of living, day-to-day giving
Had carved out a map on his face
With little to lose, he'd learned how to choose
And his choices were easy to traceHe had the eyes of a painter
Heart of a maker of songs
His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
Precious and so quickly goneFrom a long line of teachers, white Baptist preachers
He was born with an Indian will
His quiet dark eyes, reading the light
As he rode in the low Osage hillsHis school was the prairie, the sage, the wild berry
The quail, the wide open sky
The cottonwood thicket by the slow rolling river
The Redbud and the hot cattle driveHe had the eyes of a painter
Heart of a maker of songs
His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
Precious and so quickly goneThere were days filled with thinking, nights with the drinking
For a lost love that raged like a storm
Oh, but how his eyes smiled, when he'd talk to a child
The rough hands so gentle and warmHis strong arms were brown, where the long sleeves
Rolled down, on his faded blue cotton shirt
When times got hard, he'd go out in the yard
And he'd cuss away some of his hurtHe had the eyes of a painter
Heart of a maker of songs
His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
Precious and so quickly goneNow the garden's grown dusty, hand axe lies rusty
The door's banging hard in the wind
Grandpa's store is closed down, like most of the town
And it won't be open againAnd the big white car, sits out in the yard
Of the house he built solid and true
Oh, but I see his eyes, burning tonight
Like the stars in the sky he once knewHe had the eyes of a painter
Heart of a maker of songs
His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
Precious and so quickly goneHis words fell like rain on the dry desert plain
Precious and so quickly gone
Songwriters
KATE WOLFPublished by
Lyrics © BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC