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The word of our Lord scratched in sand, |
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By the spittle drenched flannel of man. |
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We struggle to stand higher, |
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But our feet are attached to the land. |
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Our souls are just arches in bones. |
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We've been crushed by sticks, |
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buried 'neath stones. |
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We struggle to stand higher, |
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But our feet are attached to the land. |
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The moment is over, |
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The idea that you, |
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Were the same when it started as |
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When it is through. |
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Is the reason that old friends have |
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Problems with new thoughts, |
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And the new clothes that you |
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Bought for them to see you in. |
