There is a green hill far away
There are hundreds, let’s make hay
We don’t mow our hills for grass
They have heather tops alas
No local birds do a fly past
As the Pennines are so vast
I took a test I never passed
in the Lord I put my trust
If the lower fields are green
There are worms at work unseen
From Winter Hill we saw North Wales
The hills aren’t green, they’re hit by hail
They have snow and they have rain
The Irish Sea must take the blame
The Atlantic is so strong
Never admit that you are wrong
The green hill is a metaphor
Blessed is the God who saw
