| up up up up up up
|
| points the spire of the steeple
|
| but god’s work isn’t done by god
|
| it’s done by people
|
| up up up up up up
|
| points the fingers of the trees
|
| and the lumberjacks
|
| with their bloody axes
|
| are on their knees
|
| and just when you think that you’ve got enough
|
| enough grows
|
| and everywhere that you go in life
|
| enough knows
|
| up up up up up up
|
| dances the steam from the sewer
|
| as she rounds the corner
|
| the brutal wind blows right through her
|
| up up up up up up
|
| raises the stakes of the game
|
| each day sinks its bootprint into her clay
|
| and she’s not the same
|
| and just when you think that you’ve got enough
|
| enough grows
|
| and everywhere that you go in life
|
| enough knows
|
| and half of learning how to play
|
| is learning what not to play
|
| and she’s learning the spaces she leaves
|
| have their own things to say
|
| then she’s trying to sing just enough
|
| so that the air around her moves
|
| and make music like mercy
|
| that gives what it is and has nothing to prove
|
| she crawls out on a limb
|
| and begins to build her home
|
| it’s enough just to look around
|
| and know she’s not alone
|
| up up up up up up
|
| points the spire of the steeple
|
| but god’s work isn’t done by god
|
| it’s done by people |