In olden days on a winter's morn,
the angels sang when she was born;
and the notes rang out so soft and sweet
as a lullaby rose, her soul to greet;
and the music grew with each heartbeat.
Her lifesong had begun
The times were hard; and the work was rough.
With brothers three she was farm-girl tough;
but when family voices raised in song
and autoharp twanged out clear and strong,
with hymns of old she'd sing along.
Her harmony blends as one.
She learned the notes and learned the chords
and used her gift to praise the Lord.
With every verse and every phrase,
Cantata and Canon, she played to praise;
and all around choral voices raise,
bringing glory to God's son.
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Through love of music, church, and life,
she chose to be a preacher's wife.
From east to west, she followed the call
in congregations large and small,
bringing inspiration to them all
to witness on and on.
A boy and a girl and grandson strong
she blessed with love and hugs and songs.
With string and wind her children play;
a mother's gift they would repay,
to honor her legacy to this day.
Her music will live on.
And so her encore will be played
by those with memories of this day.
For when they listen, some weep, some sigh,
some priase, some pary, some sing, some cry
giving glory to God 'til he is nigh.
Her gift, our endless song. | 
