| A girl cries in the early morning |
| Woken by the sound of a gun |
| She knows somewhere somebody’s dying |
| Beneath the rising sun |
| Outside the window of her cabaa |
| The shadows are full of her fears |
| She knows her lover is out there somewhere |
| He’s been on the run for a year |
| Oh, the soul of El Salvador |
| Bells ring out in the chapel steeple |
| A priest prepares to say mass |
| The sad congregation come tired and hungry |
| To pray that trouble will pass |
| Meanwhile the sun rises over the dusty streets |
| Where his crowd gathers round. |
| Flies and mosquitoes are drinking from pools of blood |
| Where the boby is found |
| Oh, the soul of El Salvador |
| Out on the ranch the rich man’s preparing |
| To go for his morning ride |
| They’ve saddled his horse out in the corral |
| He walks out full of pride |
| He looks like a cowboy from one of those pictures |
| A president made in the past |
| Peasants in rags, the stand back for they know |
| That El Rico travels fast |
| Over the soul of El Salvador |
| A girl cries in the early morning |
| Woken by the sound of a gun |
| She knows somewhere somebody’s dying |
| Beneath the rising sun |
| Outside the window of her cabaa |
| The shadows are full of her fears |
| She knows her lover is out there somewhere |
| He’s been on the run for a year |
| Oh, the soul of El Salvador |
| Oh, the soul of El Salvador |
| Oh, the soul of El Salvador |