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George Harrison – ‘My Sweet Lord’

George Harrison facts: Beatles singer's family, wife, children, songs and death... - Smooth

About the Song

George Harrison, the “quiet Beatle”, wrote “My Sweet Lord” as a spiritual ode that transcends religious boundaries. The song was inspired by his fascination with Hinduism and the teachings of Swami Vivekananda. In fact, the lyrics beautifully blend Sanskrit and English, a groundbreaking fusion at the time.

“My Sweet Lord” topped the charts worldwide and received critical acclaim, making it the first solo single by a member of The Beatles to achieve such success. This song continues to inspire listeners and is regarded as one of the greatest classics in the history of rock and spirituality.

George Harrison’s dedication to philanthropy and humanitarian work further defines his legacy. He organized the Concert for Bangladesh in 1971, a pioneering effort in rock music to raise funds for the war-torn nation, showcasing his commitment to making the world a better place.George Harrison - The Quiet Masterful Songwriter | uDiscover Music

Video

Lyrics: My Sweet Lord

My sweet Lord
Hm, my Lord
Hm, my Lord

I really want to see you
Really want to be with you
Really want to see you Lord
But it takes so long, my Lord

My sweet Lord
Hm, my Lord
Hm, my Lord

I really want to know you
Really want to go with you
Really want to show you Lord
That it won’t take long, my Lord (Hallelujah)

My sweet Lord (Hallelujah)
Hm, my Lord (Hallelujah)
My sweet Lord (Hallelujah)

I really want to see you
Really want to see you
Really want to see you, Lord
Really want to see you, Lord
But it takes so long, my Lord (Hallelujah)

My sweet Lord (Hallelujah)
Hm, my Lord (Hallelujah)
My, my, my Lord (Hallelujah)

I really want to know you (Hallelujah)
Really want to go with you (Hallelujah)
Really want to show you Lord (ahh)
That it won’t take long, my Lord (Hallelujah)

Hmm (Hallelujah)
My sweet Lord (Hallelujah)
My, my, Lord (Hallelujah)

Hm, my Lord (Hare Krishna)
My, my, my Lord (Hare Krishna)
Oh hm, my sweet Lord (Krishna, Krishna)
Oh-uuh-uh (Hare Hare)

Now, I really want to see you (Hare Rama)
Really want to be with you (Hare Rama)
Really want to see you Lord (ahh)
But it takes so long, my Lord (Hallelujah)

Hm, my Lord (Hallelujah)
My, my, my Lord (Hare Krishna)
My sweet Lord (Hare Krishna)
My sweet Lord (Krishna Krishna)
My Lord (Hare Hare)
Hm, hm (Guru Brahma)
Hm, hm (Guru Vishnu)
Hm, hm (Guru Devo)
Hm, hm (Maheśvaraḥ
My sweet Lord (Guru Sākṣāt)
My sweet Lord (Para Brahma)
My, my, my Lord (Tasmai Srī)
My, my, my, my Lord (Guru Namah)
My sweet Lord (Hare Rama)

[fade:]

(Hare Krishna)
My sweet Lord (Hare Krishna)
My sweet Lord (Krishna Krishna)
My Lord (Hare Hare)

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Lisa Marie Presley grew up in a house visited by some of the most famous people in the world, yet the person who mattered most to her was the man everyone else called the King. To millions, Elvis Presley was an untouchable superstar. To Lisa, he was the father who loved to spoil her, make her laugh and turn ordinary moments at Graceland into childhood adventures.

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BOB DYLAN AND JOHNNY CASH SHATTERED THE WALLS OF NASHVILLE WITHOUT FIRING A SINGLE SHOT. Columbia Studio A sat thick with the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke on a February morning in 1969. While the rock world was chasing ghosts in psychedelic haze, Bob Dylan stepped into the epicenter of American country music with a voice that sounded like it had been dragged across gravel. He wasn’t there to challenge the gatekeepers at the Opry; he was there to find the heartbeat of a sound he had loved from afar. Johnny Cash walked through the heavy studio doors, guitar in hand, and for two days, the rigid borders of genre simply dissolved into the air. They didn’t record some grand manifesto to change the industry. Instead, they sat on stools and tore through old folk standards and each other’s deep cuts, letting the microphones capture the loose, unvarnished truth of a collaboration that felt more like a porch gathering than a major label session. Carl Perkins added his own licks to the mix, blending the percussive snap of rock and roll with the lonesome ache of a country ballad. It was a deliberate, quiet rebellion that treated the traditions of both worlds as neighbors rather than strangers. When the tape stopped rolling, they walked away having proved that the lines drawn by radio programmers were mostly make-believe. The Ryman Auditorium stage eventually welcomed a new kind of guest, and the air in Nashville felt lighter, forever changed by two men who knew that music didn’t need permission to belong everywhere at once.