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Old Man Time is a rare old man |
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For a young man he'll ever remain, |
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With his long grey beard and his clothes are plain |
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Oh Old Man Time is his name. |
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As one flower dies, the old man cries. |
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The young man he plants the seeds again. |
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With a careful hand he tends the sand, |
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Oh, Old Man Time is his name. |
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This old man has an hourglass |
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For every soul on the land. |
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Oh, Old Man Time, I have seen mine. |
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It's the one with the fastest sand. |
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No sooner is it turned, |
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back through the glass it's churned, |
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I'm wishing I could have each hour again. |
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With a careful hand he tends the sand, |
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Oh, Old Man Time is his name. |
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To me, Old Man, your time is rare. |
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Did God not give you all my sand? |
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Or maybe mine I had to share |
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Or is there some left in your hand? |
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They tell me time is gold, well maybe it's been sold, |
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Or was it simply washed away in rain? |
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With a careful hand, he tends the sand, |
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Oh, Old Man Time is his name. |
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If I brought him a sack, |
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do you think he'd put some back? |
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I know one day across my path he'll come. |
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But as for now, I can't say how, |
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I know the old man's work is far from done, |
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For Old Man Time is just begun. |
