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As the blind walk the blind through the blackness of freedom |
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Who writes the songs that we all will be singing |
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Who writes the books where I lay my hand out open |
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So to swear myself into your grace |
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As the blind walk the blind down the borderless highway |
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Who holds the chain, who bears the load |
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Don't you be fooled if my spirits are unbroken |
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I'm told in the next life my fortune is owed |
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I'm warned not to preach if the serman I have written |
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Or stand on some soapbox I've built with my hands |
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For those who preach well will be bought out by some industry |
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That herds the golden cattle before insecure eyes |
