Born in the heat of the desert, my mother died giving me life. Deprived of the love of a father, blamed for the loss of his wife. You know, Lord, I've been in a prison for something that I never done. It's been one hill after another, and I've climbed them all one by one. But this time, Lord, you gave me a mountain, a mountain I may never climb. And if, Lord, I hear you any longer, you gave me a mountain this time. My woman got tired of the heartaches, tired of the grief and the strife. So tired of working for nothing, just tired of being my wife. She took my one ray of sunshine, she took my pride and my joy. She took my reason for living, she took my small baby boy. But this time, Lord, you gave me a mountain, a mountain I may never climb. And if, Lord, I hear you any longer, you gave me a mountain this time. You gave me a mountain this time.