i'm a stranger in this temple of the holy ghost i'm a stranger to these hands i've called 'my own' but have never known
and everything that rises must converge, my friend and everything that rises must converge in its end then begin again
and everything that rises must converge, my friend the small and simple songs make known the light that will not end
still i wander in this temple of the holy ghost longing to be still and planted as a tree by the riverside
and everything that rises must converge, my friend we'll sing aloud our sorrows and our joys and in the end become one again
(we will weave together all of our intertwining words to form a song that's not been heard we will scatter seed among the dry and broken ground and rest upon the tree that grows)