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when I was a child I talked like a child |
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with a broken mouth |
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and all my hope and faith and trust fell out |
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now uncertain future stared in a faltering heart |
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and I have grown sullen and speechless |
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next to crying stones |
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but the birds of the air |
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they don't tear at their wings |
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so that things will be better |
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the flowers in the fields |
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don't steal the clothes |
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they're robed in heather |
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and taken have I, the road less travelled by |
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and that has made all the difference |
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as the path it fades |
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and though I am lost and lonesome |
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with my own thoughts |
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I've got a blanket of stars |
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and the earth a pillow to lay my weary head on |
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for the birds of the air |
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they don't tear at their wings |
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so that things will be better |
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the flowers in the fields |
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don't steal the clothes |
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they're robed in heather |
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and what kind of father would offer a snake |
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when a child asked for fish in the sea |
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I know you love me better |
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so give of your blood and your body and spirit please |
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the birds of the air |
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they don't tear at their wings |
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so that things will be better |
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the flowers in the fields |
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don't steal the clothes |
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they're robed in heather |
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and I will sing a new song |
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I will sing it aloud |
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the one that you put in my soul |
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I will sing a new song |
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like the profits who told the kings and queens of old |
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the birds of the air |
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they don't tear at their wings |
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so that things will be better |
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but things will be better |
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things will be better |
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things will be better |
