In the time of my confession,
In the hour of my deepest need,
When the pool of
tears beneath my feet
Floods every newborn seed,
There's a dying voice within me
Reaching out somewhere,
Toiling in the
danger And in the morals of despair.
Don't have the
inclination
To look back on any mistakes,
In sleet or rain I behold a chain Of events that I must break.
In the fury of the moment
I see the
master's hand,
In every leaf that trembles,
In every grain of sand.
For the flowers of
indulgence
And the weeds of yesteryear,
Like criminals they have choked the
breath Of conscience and good cheer.
The sun beats down upon the steps of time To light the way,
To ease the pain of idleness,
And the memory of decay.
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.
We have gone from ranks to riches In the sorrow of the night,
In the violence of a
summer's dream,
In the chill of
winter's night,
In the bitter dance of loneliness Fading into space,
In the broken mirror of innocence On each forgotten face.
I hear the
aging footsteps Like the motion of the sea,
Sometimes I turn,
There's someone there,