|
And who will write love songs for you |
|
When I am Lord at last |
|
And your body is the little highway shrine |
|
That all my priests have passed |
|
That all my priests have passed? |
|
My priests, they will put flowers there |
|
They will kneel before the glass |
|
But they'll wear away your little window, love |
|
They will trample on the grass |
|
They will trample on the grass |
|
And who will shoot the arrow |
|
That men will follow through your grace |
|
When I am Lord of memories |
|
And all your armor has turned to lace |
|
And all your armor has turned to lace? |
|
The simple life of heroes |
|
The twisted life of saints |
|
They just confuse the sunny calendar |
|
With their red and golden paint |
|
With their red and golden paint |
|
And all of you have seen the dance |
|
That God has kept from me |
|
But he has seen me watching you |
|
When all your minds were free |
|
When all your minds were free |
|
And who will write love songs for you |
|
When I am Lord at last |
|
And your body is the little highway shrine |
|
That all my priests have passed |
|
That all my priests have passed? |
|
My priests, they will put flowers there |
|
They will stand before the glass |
|
But they'll wear away your little window, love |
|
They will trample on the grass |
|
They will trample on the grass |
