In a small town, he was born, a humble man of faith,
With a guitar in his hand, he walked the narrow way.
Singing songs of grace and love, he followed Heaven's light,
But as he grew, the world grew cold, his cross was in their sight.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
He sang of a Shepherd, who'd leave the ninety-nine,
Of a kingdom not of earth, but born of the divine.
His message was a beacon, a light in darkest night,
But many turned away, too afraid to see the light.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
As he walked his final mile, betrayed by those he knew,
His closest friends stayed near, their hearts were tried and true.
And after he was gone, his voice still echoed clear,
For those who knew his songs, would keep his memory near.
Like the Word that was written, by a hand divine,
His life became a story, in the sands of time.
And those who heard the truth, now sing his sweet refrain,
A legacy of love, in a world of pain.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
His song goes on, though the singer's gone,
A melody of grace that carries on.
In the hearts of those who heard his cry,
The troubadour's song will never die.
Ai Original Music - The Ballad Of The Troubadour Lyrics
Ai Original Music - The Ballad Of The Troubadour Lyrics
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In a small town, he was born, a humble man of faith,
With a guitar in his hand, he walked the narrow way.
Singing songs of grace and love, he followed Heaven's light,
But as he grew, the world grew cold, his cross was in their sight.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
He sang of a Shepherd, who'd leave the ninety-nine,
Of a kingdom not of earth, but born of the divine.
His message was a beacon, a light in darkest night,
But many turned away, too afraid to see the light.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
As he walked his final mile, betrayed by those he knew,
His closest friends stayed near, their hearts were tried and true.
And after he was gone, his voice still echoed clear,
For those who knew his songs, would keep his memory near.
Like the Word that was written, by a hand divine,
His life became a story, in the sands of time.
And those who heard the truth, now sing his sweet refrain,
A legacy of love, in a world of pain.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
His song goes on, though the singer's gone,
A melody of grace that carries on.
In the hearts of those who heard his cry,
The troubadour's song will never die.
With a guitar in his hand, he walked the narrow way.
Singing songs of grace and love, he followed Heaven's light,
But as he grew, the world grew cold, his cross was in their sight.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
He sang of a Shepherd, who'd leave the ninety-nine,
Of a kingdom not of earth, but born of the divine.
His message was a beacon, a light in darkest night,
But many turned away, too afraid to see the light.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
As he walked his final mile, betrayed by those he knew,
His closest friends stayed near, their hearts were tried and true.
And after he was gone, his voice still echoed clear,
For those who knew his songs, would keep his memory near.
Like the Word that was written, by a hand divine,
His life became a story, in the sands of time.
And those who heard the truth, now sing his sweet refrain,
A legacy of love, in a world of pain.
Oh, the troubadour sang of a King,
With a heart so pure, his voice would ring.
But the road grew rough, and the crowd grew thin,
Yet his song of love would never end.
His song goes on, though the singer's gone,
A melody of grace that carries on.
In the hearts of those who heard his cry,
The troubadour's song will never die.
Writer: Stan Davis
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid