The word of our Lord scratched in sand,
By the spittle drenched flannel of man.
We struggle to stand higher,
But our feet are attached to the land.

Our souls are just arches in bones.
We've been crushed by sticks,
buried 'neath stones.
We struggle to stand higher,

The moment is over,
The idea that you,
Were the same when it started as
When it is through.
Is the reason that old friends have
Problems with new thoughts,
And the new clothes that you
Bought for them to see you in.