Time took the better of the priest sermon-weary, not the the least entering his sanctuary the church, the church is empty
The air is moist, the light is dim There’s mold that’s creeping up the walls Frescoes gone beyond repair the church, the church is empty
And thus decays a house of God the sounds of worship have reduced from benches left as woodwormfood made from trees that bear no fruit
Old lady’s tribute to gospel’s truth her bouquets replace absent youth It seems the time for saving souls is withering and waning
The old priest rises from his seat the chancel steps creak ‘neath his feet It seems the time for Chosen Ones runs out like clouds when raining
No successor for the man a cold wind blowing through the aisles the flock has fled to modern times the bell, for deaf man’s ears it chimes
And thus decays a house of God the sounds of worship have reduced from benches left as woodwormfood made from trees that bear no fruit
The air is moist, the light is dim There’s mold that’s creeping up the walls A breeze of cold that treads the halls the church, the church is emptyTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
