| It’s 6: 30 am, sun rises on the city again,
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| And hands reach over
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| From the bedclothes warm,
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| And punch that button on the stupid alarm,
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| And a baby starts to cry
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| And the coffee goes on,
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| But they don’t even know:
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| That this is the day that the Lord has made
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| They were meant to rejoice and be glad in it
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| For the times and the seasons
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| Are in Your hands
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| But they don’t even know.
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| It’s 8: 30 am, they’re walking off to school again,
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| An angel at their shoulder
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| And a pocket full of hope,
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| And a natural resistance determined to cope,
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| With whatever lies before them
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| On the slippery slope
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| But they don’t even know:
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| It’s 5: 30pm, they’re all sitting down to eat again,
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| She’s a single young mother,
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| He’s a noisy child,
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| He’s a lonely lost father who’s forgotten his smile,
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| They’re a family in trouble,
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| But they’re gonna get by
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| But they don’t even know:
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| It’s 10.30 pm, sunset upon this city again,
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| It’s a circle of life
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| On a dead end train,
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| Is it just another morning with some more of the same?
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| Shouldn’t somebody be singing,
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| A simple refrain
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| So that they might even know? |