Oh, yeah . . .
. . .
These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars and
The choosers
This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with
Ignorance
And, legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poor
And, most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But, we'll take our chances
Cause God's stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and
All god's children
Crept out the back door
And, it's hard to love,
There's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And, the wounded skies above
Say it's much too much
Too late
. . .
Well maybe we should all
Be praying for time
. . . .
. . . .
These are the days of the empty hand
Oh, you hold on to what you can
And, charity is a coat you wear
Twice a year
This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And, you find
That what was over there
Is over here
So, you scream from behind your door
Say what's mine is mine and
Not yours
I may have too much
But, I'll take my chances
'Cause God's stopped keeping score
And, you cling to the things they sold you
Did you cover your eyes when they told you
That he can't come back
Because, he has no children
To come back for
It's hard to love
There's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope
To speak of
And, the wounded skies above
Say it's much too late
So, maybe we should all
Be praying for time . . .
. . .
Woh, yeah . . .
