The story behind this song
Born when radios were furniture, his father's pocket watch still ticking against his Sunday shirt. The world changed its mind a hundred times; he kept the long table, the extra chair, and the standing reservation every week.
Four generations now fit in one kitchen because he kept them gathering. For the grandpa whose eighty years are best counted in Sundays.
Lyrics
Count it in Sundays —
it comes out to more.
it comes out to more.
Born when radios were furniture,
raised on work and borrowed shoes,
you've seen the whole world change its mind
and kept the parts worth keeping true.
The pocket watch that was your father's
still ticks against your Sunday shirt.
raised on work and borrowed shoes,
you've seen the whole world change its mind
and kept the parts worth keeping true.
The pocket watch that was your father's
still ticks against your Sunday shirt.
Eighty years — but who's counting years?
We count the table settings.
We count the table settings.
Eighty years of Sundays, Grandpa,
the long table and the extra chair,
four generations in one kitchen
because you kept us gathering there.
The world got loud; you kept it simple:
show up, hold hands, pass the bread.
Eighty years of Sundays — and counting.
the long table and the extra chair,
four generations in one kitchen
because you kept us gathering there.
The world got loud; you kept it simple:
show up, hold hands, pass the bread.
Eighty years of Sundays — and counting.
You carry names we never met
in the quiet of your grace,
and somehow make the missing feel
like guests who kept their place.
The grandkids' grandkid wears your smile —
you laughed so hard the day you saw it.
in the quiet of your grace,
and somehow make the missing feel
like guests who kept their place.
The grandkids' grandkid wears your smile —
you laughed so hard the day you saw it.
Eighty years — but who's counting years?
Look around the table.
Look around the table.
Eighty years of Sundays, Grandpa,
the long table and the extra chair,
four generations in one kitchen
because you kept us gathering there.
The world got loud; you kept it simple:
show up, hold hands, pass the bread.
Eighty years of Sundays — and counting.
the long table and the extra chair,
four generations in one kitchen
because you kept us gathering there.
The world got loud; you kept it simple:
show up, hold hands, pass the bread.
Eighty years of Sundays — and counting.
They'll ask us what you left behind.
Not money. Not a monument.
A standing reservation, every week,
at a table that knows our names.
Not money. Not a monument.
A standing reservation, every week,
at a table that knows our names.
Eighty years of Sundays, Grandpa,
the long table and the extra chair,
four generations in one kitchen
because you kept us gathering there.
The world got loud; you kept it simple:
show up, hold hands, pass the bread.
Eighty years of Sundays — and counting.
the long table and the extra chair,
four generations in one kitchen
because you kept us gathering there.
The world got loud; you kept it simple:
show up, hold hands, pass the bread.
Eighty years of Sundays — and counting.
Count it in Sundays.
See you next week, old man.
See you next week, old man.
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