By the graveside of this near forgotten man,
On this cold November morning here I stand,
Thinking of the friends he lost for love of gold,
This old story through the years has oft'
been told.
(D) Falling leaves that lie scattered on the (G) ground,
The birds and (A7) flowers that were here cannot be (D) found.
All the friends that he once knew are not (G) around.
They're all (A7) scattered like the leaves upon the (D) ground.
Some folks drift along through life and never thrill,
To the feeling that a good deed brings until,
It's too late and they are ready to lie down,
There beneath the leaves that's scattered on the ground.
Lord, let my eyes see every need of every man,
Make me stop and always lend a helping hand,
Then when I'm laid beneath that little grassy mound,
There'll be more friends around than leaves upon the ground.
To your grave there's no use taking any gold,
You cannot use it when it's time for hands to fold,
When you leave this earth for a better home someday,
The only thing you'll take is what you gave away.
[Thanks to Matthew Jones for corrections]
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