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She was born of missionaries, somewhere overseas |
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And now it was that she was brought to me |
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Staring from her farmhouse porch and through a heavy rain |
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She says that inside she felt a change |
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The seed is for the field and the trough is for your hand |
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And this is something we can understand |
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The seed is for the field and the trough is for your hand |
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And this is something we can understand |
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But you feel something wrong |
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And you know what it is |
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And your father will never understand |
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But I can, I can pull you out |
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I can pull you out |
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Picture of St. Jude is on the candle that I burned |
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Saint of my lost causes and concerns |
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Alone and in my bedroom, my guitar and wooden chair |
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Play out all my thoughts until the end |
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The prayers go soft, you can feel them even more |
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As they echo down the hall and hardwood floor |
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The tubes sound warm and the instrument plays well |
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How long I have waited, I can't tell |
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How long I have waited, I can't tell |
