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I visit her grave every Sunday,
And I kneel by the little plot of ground;
I cover her grave with pretty flowers,
And make believe that she is still around.
When she lived I was always busy,
And I never took the time to stay around;
Now all I have left of my Momma, God bless her,
Are memories and this little plot of ground.
I pick all the weeds that are growing,
As the tears run down my face;
I replace all the weeds with pretty flowers,
Just to brighten up Momma's resting place.
She never had pretty things like others,
She never took, she always gave;
That's why I go to see her every Sunday,
And kneel down and pray at Momma's grave.
I pick all the weeds that are growing,
As the tears run down my face;
I replace all the weeds with pretty flowers,
Just to brighten up Momma's resting place.
