I remember the year my grandaddy died
(Gone, gonna rise again)
They dug his grave on a mountainside
(Gone, gonna rise again)
I was too young to understand
The way he felt about the land
But I could read his history in his hands
(Gone, gonna rise again)
Corn in the crib and apples in the bin
Ham in the smokehouse, cotton in the gin
Cows in the barn and hogs in the plot
You know he never had a lot
But he worked like the devil for the little he'd got
Those apple trees on the mountainside
He planted the seeds just before he died
I guess he knew he'd never see
The red fruit hanging from the tree
But he planted those seeds for his children and me
High on a ridge above the farm
I think of my people that have gone on
Like a tree that grows in the mountain ground
The storms of life have cut them down
But the new wood springs from the roots underground
