| When I was a child and the road was dark and the way was long and alone,
|
| My heart would lift as I turned the bend and saw the lights of home.
|
| Now high above in a silent sky,
|
| In a still and starry space,
|
| A man looks down on the earth below,
|
| And that blue and green and shining glow,
|
| To him is the lights of home.
|
| It’s the good earth, yes the good earth.
|
| It’s a land of sun and rain and snow,
|
| And mulberry trees and mistletoe,
|
| And burning plains and raging seas,
|
| And Sunday morning taking your ease,
|
| Watching your children grow.
|
| It’s the good earth, yes the good earth,
|
| Where we fought and loved and killed and died,
|
| And ruined and ravished the countryside,
|
| But now, from a million miles away,
|
| From another world that’s cold and gray,
|
| Someone is able to look and say,
|
| «That's the good earth.»
|
| So isn’t it time we stopped the tears?
|
| We’ve lived together for thousands of years,
|
| And whether I’m wrong, and whether you’re right,
|
| Whether you’re black, and whether I’m white,
|
| One day we’ll stand on the edge of the world,
|
| And someone will ask us the land of our birth,
|
| And we’ll look into his eyes and quietly say:
|
| «It's the good earth, yes the good earth.»
|
| Why can’t we be good on the good earth? |