My folks, they were always the first family to arrive, with seven people jammed into a car that seated five,
There was one bathroom to bathe and shave in; six of us stood in line,
And hot water for only three, but we all did just fine.

Talk about your miracles, talk about your faith,
My dad, he could make things grow out of Indiana clay,
Mom could make a gourmet meal out of just cornbread and beans,
And they worked to give faith hands and feet, and somehow gave it wings.

I can still hear my dad cussing; he's working late out in the barn,
The spring planting's a-coming and the tractors just won't run,
Mom, she's done the laundry; I can see it waving on the line,
Now they've stayed together through the pain, the strain of those times.

Talk about your miracles, talk about your faith,
My dad, he could make things grow out of Indiana clay,
Mom could make a gourmet meal out of just cornbread and beans,
And they worked to give faith hands and feet, and somehow gave it wings.

Now they've raised five children,
One winter they lost a son, but the pain didn't leave them crippled and the scars have made them strong,
Never picture perfect, just a plain man and his wife who somehow knew the value of hard work, good love, and real life.

Talk about your miracles, talk about your faith,
My dad, he could make things grow out of Indiana clay,
Mom could make a gourmet meal out of just cornbread and beans,
And they worked to give faith hands and feet; somehow gave it wings.