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Across the town on the other hill, |
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your lights glow from a different world. |
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You always found a place to hide - nails and cross to lay beside; |
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with all the ghosts that we denied. |
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Now, in rippled arcs across the sky, the great white birds of winter fly; |
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and the wheel turns, and people change - scattered ashes to the wind. |
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And there's no pain, there's no pain, there's no pain |
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A dry river in the blazing sun . . . |
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Your parched face and your callused hands, |
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Behind us lie the arid lands |
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To say too much - well, it was not our way, |
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and in the end there wasn't much to say; |
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the scars are healed now anyway |
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and there's no pain. . . a dry river in the blazing sun . . . |
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And Abraham rose, took his only son, and knife and tinder |
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in his hand, and setting out across the desert and up into |
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the scrubland hills, he bound the boy Isaac to the stone, |
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raised the blade and waited for the miracle. |
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But the wind blows silent across the hills, across the dead and the empty hills, |
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dead, like the god that never came, |
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like your face, the day that you turned away. |
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There's no pain . . . a dry river in the blazing sun . . . |
