I'm returning to you,
To you
I'm exerting for peace and truth

Oh these hands, these weathered hands,
Forming and moulding the dirt in the land
Oh, these hands,
These weathered hands, moving and softening the earth.

I’m returning to you,
To you
I'm exerting for peace and truth.

Oh, these palms, these brazen palms,
Pulling and pounding the song in my soul
Oh, these palms, these brazen palms, rough as they cross ore' my heart.

A covering of gold so soft, a glaze so old
I'm told, a flame by night, pressed cold
My form so tight
A line, I see in part, where the stiff clay shatters and the world grasped its heart
Will we find you there with hands in layers old?
Will you lift us?
Our forms inlaid with gold.