I was wrong,
Buried, I see it now
The hand behind the twisting dagger’s teeth
Dawn again somehow
I was played
To dance within the cage
The laughter through the haunted halls below
Echoes ‘cross the stage
Still I’m doing OK for a Saturday
Bridges burned, left far behind
I know, that I won’t find
A lack, that piece of mind
For aren’t we the people who killed our Lord?
We are tears
Poured from Heaven’s eye
To rain upon the sodden fields of life
Plants of ergot rye
We are Born
To herald the guilted age
With lies we trumpet, truths be sold, we hide
We cast on center stage
Still I’m doing OK for a Saturday
Sunday’s gone, left far behind
I know that I won’t find
The script with page unlined
For aren’t we the people who killed our Lord?
It is, it will
Always, forever be
The calloused hand, the maker’s mark and plan
Etched perpetuity
Still I’m doing OK for a Saturday
Sunday’s gone, left far behind
A hope that we may find
A peace for human kind
But, aren’t we the people who killed our Lord?
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“Sunday’s Gone” © John Anthony. All Rights Reserved.
The Delicate Edge 