Obituary

A bus station, in the steam from the rain 

In this line of pale strangers, should I go or stay? 



The whole field of vision, fades beneath me now 

And the houses spread for a million miles, 

in this gray town 



And the weight of glory, if you held it in your hand 

It would pass right through you, so now's your chance 



Would you fall to pieces 

Would you fall to pieces 

Would you fall to pieces 

In the high countries? 



We are just pilgrims of the great divorce 

I am witness to the light and I am captive to my own remorse 



And the weight of glory, if you held it in your hand 

It would pass right through you, so now's your chance 



You drink the cup to the bottom, but it burns in your hands 

The cup was poured out on the Maker instead 



Out on the green plains, I am but a ghost 

Bound up with all that I call "mine" still the light grows