Words get written, words get twisted Old meanings move in the drift of time Lift the flickering torches, see gentle shadows change The features of the faces cut in unmoving stone
Bad mouth on a prayer day Hope no one's listening Roots down in the wet clay Branches glistening
True disciples carrying that message To colour just a little with their personal touch Home-spun fancy weavers, naked half-believers Crusades and creeds descend like fiery flakes of snow
Roots to branches Roots to branches Roots to branches
In wet and windy priest-holes, grand in vast cathedrals High on lofty minarets or in the temples of doom I hope the old man's got his face on, he'd better be some quick change artist Suffer little children to make their minds up soon