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In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need |
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when the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed |
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there's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere |
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toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair |
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Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake |
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like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break |
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in the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand |
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in every leaf that trembles and in every grain of sand |
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Ooh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear |
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like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer |
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the sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way |
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to ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay |
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I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame |
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and every time I pass that way I always hear my name |
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then onward in my journey I come to understand |
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that every hair is numbered like every grain of sand |
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I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night |
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in the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light |
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in the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space |
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in the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face |
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I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea |
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sometimes I turn there's someone there other times it's only me |
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I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan |
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like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand |
