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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