High above the valley of Quito An old man and his bride grow roses Red and yellow, white and golden To him they are precious as children
Their daughter, she moved to America One more brick in the tower of Babel She has a son that they've never seen at all They're praying that they raised her well
A man, his bride, his children, and his roses Planted in faith, watered in tears Honey, that's all they have and they're happier here Than any of our friends back home They met Jesus, and they really know Him
Now I'm back at home, all alone, And I'm trying to find my thoughts That old man's so inspiring, And the phone, it won't stop ringing, These bills, they keep on screaming They're paying for all the things That we never really needed
And I wonder what he's doing right now Maybe walking through his simple field, A man, his bride, his children, and his roses
As time just slips away...