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His name is Andrew |
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He works at the canning factory |
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He doesn't have a friend |
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He chooses to wait alone for his life to end |
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When Andrew was just a little boy |
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He learned all the words to all the hymns of joy |
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And he sang them on Sunday |
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And he sang them on Monday |
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And through April and through May |
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And he caught them say |
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God is love, God is love |
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And he believed them |
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This child was Andrew |
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He lived in a world of no sense |
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On him the lion grinned |
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He sang in the arms of God as he strung along |
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When Andrew was tall and twenty-one |
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He wandered far from God and wondered what he'd done |
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For he still sang on Sunday |
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Though he muddled through Monday |
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With a silence in his head |
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Till in jest it said |
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God redeems, God redeems |
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And he believed it |
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This man was Andrew |
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On hearing a voice he thought was stilled |
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Returned to the arms of grace |
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He stumbled from the arms of night into a lighted place |
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When Andrew returned into the light |
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He lifted his voice and sang away the night |
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And the preacher from Sunday |
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Heard him singing on Monday |
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And he stopped him with a word |
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From the dark he heard |
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God is dead, God is dead |
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And he believed it |
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My name is Andrew |
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I work at the canning factory |
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I do not have a friend |
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I choose to wait alone for this life to end |
