I think everyone has a story. Nothing is more fascinating to me than reading those stories, or better yet hearing those stories from their own lips. But (in case you haven't figured it out already) I'm a bit of a weirdo. Inanimate objects have stories too, even if, for the most part, we'll never know them.
For instance, along a river, near the crumbling gate posts of a long gone mansion along the river, there is a rock, a large rock where the old driveway turned to the house. People have hiked that walk many times, paying no attention to that rock, but it has a story. Back in 1852 or thereabouts a 13 year old boy sat there waiting for his father after a hunt, fiddling with a gun and accidently shot himself dead.
Up in our garage, we have a large piece of hand hewn beamwork that came from a house built in 1860. The cool thing about this beam is that it has been repurposed, probably from an old barn. You can see the old holes where the beams were pegged together in their previous life. Now...if you figure that the barn stood for 30 years, you take that history back to 1800. However, these beams are massive things. I'm easily looking at something that grew prior to the Revolutionary War, back before this area was settled, back when it was home to the Seneca Nation, which was part of the Iroquois confederacy. And when I touch this beam, I think of the hands that hewed it. I think of its life as a tree, its leaves rustling as Indian hunted beneath it. The beam has a story, and I shall never know it.
I think that these stories are what make churches hallowed places. They hold the stories of countless weddings, baptisms, and funerals. They are repositories for generations of tears and joys, and (being that weirdo) I feel those stories when I walk into a place. I don't know them specifically, but I know that they reside there.
The same thing with cemeteries. All those stones have a story. Some of the stories are very long, others, all too brief. But when I walk into a cemetery, I am mindful that I am standing the midst of stories that are for the most part, unknown, and those stories consecrate their place, to my way of thinking.
So I walk around this world and I wonder about stories, about the long gone hands of the people who made this or that, or who walked on this ground before me, or the people who lived in the little houses along the river that we now own.
Knowing this little factoid might make you understand why I found this little song so moving.