And who will write love songs for you
When I am lord at last
And your body is a little highway shrine
That all my priests have passed?
That all my priests have passed

My priests they will put flowers there
They will kneel before the glass
But they'll wear away your little window, love
They will trample on the grass
They will trample on the grass

And who will shoot the arrow
That men will follow through your grace
When I am lord of memory
And all your armor has turned to lace?
And all your armor has turned to lace

The simple life of heroes
And the twisted life of saints
They just confuse the sunny calendar
With their red and golden paints
With their red and golden paints

And all of you have seen the dance
That God has kept from me
But he has seen me watching you
When all your minds were free
When all your minds were free