| Chorus: It’s been a long time coming, long time astray;
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| She dug a hole in the earth in this foreign land;
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| But her fingers leave no imprints in desert ground
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| Her song make no sound
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| Medea: Chorus! |
| Oh my chorus! |
| Sing it for me, home
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| Chorus: She will return at house and years old from hour glass living
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| And when she kisses him she fills his mouth with sand;
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| A cast around the inside
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| Medea: Angel, all the angels, heal him, make him home
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| Chorus: They say that Aphrodite dips her cup
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| In the clear stream of the lovely Cephisus;
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| It is she who breathes over the land the breath
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| Of gentle honey-laden winds; |
| her flowing locks
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| She crowns with a diadem of sweet-scented roses
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| Where will you find (the) hardness of purpose?
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| How will you build resolution in hand or heart
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| To face horror without flinching?
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| When the moment comes, and you look at them —
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| The moment for you to assume the role of murderess — How will you do it?
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| When your sons kneel to you for pity
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| Will you stain your fingers with their blood?
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| Your heart will melt, you will know you cannot
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| Messenger: The bride will receive the golden coronet
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| Receive her merciless destroyer;
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| With her own hands she will carefully fit
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| The adornment of death around her golden hair |