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C'mon, kind |
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Sir, let's walk outside |
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And breathe the autumn air |
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See the many that have lived and died |
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See the unending golden stair |
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See all of us that have come behind |
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Clutching at your hem |
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All the way from |
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Arkansas To your sweet and last amen |
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Let the bells ring |
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He is the real thing |
|
Let the bells ring |
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He is the real, real thing |
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Take this deafening thunder down |
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Take this bread and take this wine |
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Your passing is not what we mourn |
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But the world you left behind |
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Well, do not breathe, nor make a sound |
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And behold your mighty work |
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That towers over the uncaring ground |
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Of a lesser, darker world |
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Let the bells ring |
|
He is the real thing |
|
Let the bells ring |
|
He is the real, real thing |
|
There are those of us not fit to tie |
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The laces of your shoes |
|
Must remain behind to testify |
|
Through an elementary blues |
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So, let's walk outside, the hour is late |
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Through your crumbs and scattered shells |
|
Where the awed and the mediocre wait |
|
Barely fit to ring the bells |
|
Let the bells ring |
|
He is the real thing |
|
Let the bells ring |
|
He is the real, real thing |
