In the time of my confession, in the hour of my debasement, When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seat, There's a dying voice within me, reaching out somewhere, Toiling in the danger and in the mires of despair. Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake, Why can't I now behold this chain of events that I must break? In the fury of the moment, I can see the master's hand, In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand. Or the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear, Like criminals they have choked the breath of conscience in good cheer. The sun be down upon the steps of time to light the way, To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay. I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry bay, And every time I pass that way, I always hear my name. Then onward in my journey, I come to understand, That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand. The sun be down upon the steps of time to light the way, To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay. The sun be down upon the steps of time to light the way, To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay. I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night, In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintery light. In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space, In the broken dear of innocence on each forgotten face. I hear the aging footsteps like the motion of the sea, Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me. I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man, Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand. © transcript Emily Beynon © transcript Emily Beynon © transcript Emily Beynon