The Prison Guards are changing while the inmates wait to slumber.
Outside the walls the crickets sing while another man goes under.
Me, I watch the seconds turn to minutes spent to hours.
While our love cuts through it all like searchlights in the towers.
But good things come to those who wait.
Grandpa used to tell me, son, they're all yesterdays.
Now I hear the soldiers coming, their voices filled with pain.
But good things come, good things come to those who wait.
Our love was born one winter night, one Iowa December.
A treasure I hold deep inside, no effort to remember.
For though you are so far away, ten thousand miles of sorrow.
This prison camp will not kill our blessed free tomorrow.
But good things come to those who wait.
Grandpa used to tell me, son, they're all yesterdays.
Now I hear the soldiers coming, their voices filled with pain.
But good things come, good things come to those who wait.
Now I'll still see that Iowa bone.
You on the front porch waiting alone.
But good things come to those who wait.
Grandpa used to tell me, son, they're all yesterdays.
Now the Indian may be coming, and the world's so full of hate.
But good things come, good things come to those who wait.
Good things come to those who wait.
Good things come to those who wait.
Good things come to those who wait.