| I can’t believe that it’s so cold
|
| And there ain’t been no snow.
|
| The sound of music it comes to me
|
| From every place I go.
|
| Sunday morning, there’s no one in church
|
| But the clergy’s chosen man
|
| And he is fine I won’t worry about him
|
| Got the book in his hand.
|
| There’s a bitter east wind and the fields are swaying
|
| The crows are round their nests.
|
| I wonder what he’s in there saying
|
| To all those souls at rest.
|
| I see the path which led to the door
|
| And the clergy’s chosen man
|
| Bushes and briars, you and I
|
| Where do we stand?
|
| I wonder if he knows I’m here
|
| Watching the briars grow.
|
| And all these people beneath my shoes,
|
| I wonder if they know.
|
| There was a time when every last one
|
| Knew a clergy’s chosen man
|
| Where are they now? |
| Thistles and thorns
|
| Among the sand.
|
| I can’t believe that it’s so cold
|
| And there ain’t been no snow.
|
| The sound of music it comes to me
|
| From every place I go.
|
| Sunday morning, there’s no one in church
|
| But the clergy’s chosen man
|
| Bushes and briars, thistles and thorns
|
| Upon the land. |