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.
Oh, 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.
I gaze into the doorway of
temptations and reflain,
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.
I've 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.