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He believed in the things that he always thought he knew |
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And had done all the things that he always wanted to do |
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Collecting each thing, reflecting his worth |
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But now he pondered, how he had wandered this earth |
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For we all seem to give our lives away |
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Searching for things that we think we must own |
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Until on this evening when the year is leaving |
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We all try to find our way home |
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He had time or at least then he always thought he did |
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And mistakes, well he thought that time always would forgive |
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Each transgression for his intentions, forgetting |
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Years he squandered on things he now was regretting |
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For we all seem to give our lives away |
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Searching for things that we think we must own |
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Until on this evening when the year is leaving |
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We all try to find our way home |
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For we all seem to give our lives away |
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Searching for things that we think we must own |
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But on this evening when the year is leaving |
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I think I would be alright if on this |
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Christmas night |
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I could just find my way home |
