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In the time of my confession, |
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in the hour of my deepest need |
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When the pool of tears beneath my feet |
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flood every newborn seed |
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There's a dyin' voice within me |
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reaching out somewhere, |
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Toiling in the danger and in |
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the morals of despair. |
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Don't have the inclination to |
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look back on any mistake, |
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Like Cain, |
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I now behold this chain of events |
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that I must break. |
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In the fury of the moment |
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I can see the Master's hand |
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In every leaf that trembles, |
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in every grain of sand. |
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Oh, the flowers of indulgence |
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and the weeds of yesteryear, |
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Like criminals, |
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they have choked the breath |
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of conscience and good cheer. |
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The sun beat down upon the steps |
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of time to light the way |
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To ease the pain of idleness |
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and the memory of decay. |
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I gaze into the doorway of |
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temptation's angry flame |
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And every time I pass that way |
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I always hear my name. |
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Then onward in my journey |
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I come to understand |
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That every hair is numbered |
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like every grain of sand. |
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I have gone from rags to riches |
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in the sorrow of the night |
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In the violence of a summer's dream, |
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in the chill of a wintry light, |
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In the bitter dance of loneliness |
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fading into space, |
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In the broken mirror of innocence |
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on each forgotten face. |
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I hear the ancient footsteps like |
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the motion of the sea |
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Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, |
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other times it's only me. |
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I am hanging in the balance |
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of the reality of man |
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Like every sparrow falling, |
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like every grain of sand. Amanda Ghost |
