Words get written. Words get twisted
Old meanings move in the drift of time
Lift the flickering torches. See gentle shadows change
The features of the faces cut in unmoving stone
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening

True disciples carrying that message
To colour just a little with their personal touch
Home-spun fancy weavers and naked half-believers --
Crusades and creeds descend like fiery flakes of snow
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening
Roots to branches
Roots to branches
Roots to branches

In wet and windy priest-holes. Grand in vast cathedrals
High on lofty minarets or in the temples of doom
I hope the old man's got his face on
He'd better be some quick change artist
Suffer little children to make their minds up soon
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening
Roots to branches
Roots to branches
Roots to branches
Roots to branches
Roots to branches
Roots to branches