|
His name is Andrew |
|
He works at the canning factory |
|
He doesn't have a friend |
|
He chooses to wait alone for his life to end |
|
When Andrew was just a little boy |
|
He learned all the words to all the hymns of joy |
|
And he sang them on Sunday |
|
And he sang them on Monday |
|
And through April and through May |
|
And he caught them say |
|
God is love, God is love |
|
And he believed them |
|
This child was Andrew |
|
He lived in a world of no sense |
|
On him the lion grinned |
|
He sang in the arms of God as he strung along |
|
When Andrew was tall and twenty-one |
|
He wandered far from God and wondered what he'd done |
|
For he still sang on Sunday |
|
Though he muddled through Monday |
|
With a silence in his head |
|
Till in jest it said |
|
God redeems, God redeems |
|
And he believed it |
|
This man was Andrew |
|
On hearing a voice he thought was stilled |
|
Returned to the arms of grace |
|
He stumbled from the arms of night into a lighted place |
|
When Andrew returned into the light |
|
He lifted his voice and sang away the night |
|
And the preacher from Sunday |
|
Heard him singing on Monday |
|
And he stopped him with a word |
|
From the dark he heard |
|
God is dead, God is dead |
|
And he believed it |
|
My name is Andrew |
|
I work at the canning factory |
|
I do not have a friend |
|
I choose to wait alone for this life to end |