Somewhere in Eastern Montana, out out where the cross winds blow.
Out where the Lord understands you, out where nobody knows.
Along the side of the highway, by a turn in the road.
I saw some flowers on a small white cross.
I saw where God called you home.
Mile 416.
I can hear the sirens screaming down the road.
I can see the tow truck's flashing lights.
I can see your sweet soul letting go.
Into that Montana night.
I can see the barbed wire hug that broken post.
I can hear the wheat field cry in pain.
I can see the Father, Son and Holy Ghost riding that Great Northern train.
Mile 416.
I do not know your name, and I will never know you well.
If its all the same, yours is a tale I will tell.
Mile 416.
Into that Montana night.
I can see the barbed wire hug that broken post.
I can hear the wheat field cry in pain.
I can see the Father, Son and Holy Ghost riding that Great Northern train.
Mile 416.
I do not know your name, and I will never know you well.
If its all the same, yours is a tale I will tell.
Mile 416.