And the coal trucks come a-running, with their bellies full of coal,
And their big wheels a-humming down this road that lies open,
Like the soul of a woman who hid the spies who were looking tor the land of the milk and the honey.
And this road, she is a woman,
She was made from a rib, cut from the sides of these mountains,
Oh, these great sleeping Adams who are lonely, even here in paradise,
Lonely for somebody to kiss them,
And I'll sing my song...and I'll sing my song in the land of my sojourn.
And the lady in the harbour, she still holds her torch out to those huddled masses who are yearning for a freedom that still eludes them,
The immigrant's children see their brightest dreams shattered,
Here on the New Jersey shoreline, in the greed and the glitter of those high-tech casinos,
But some mendicants wander off into a cathedral, and they stoop in the silence, and there their prayers are still whispered,
And I'll sing their song...and I'll sing their song in the land of my sojourn.
Nobody tells you when you get born here how much you'll come to love it, and how you'll never belong here.
So I call you my country, and I'll be lonely for my home,
And I wish that I could take you there with me.
And down the brown brick spine of some dirty blind alley, all those drain pipes are dripping out the last sons of thunder,
While, off in the distance, the smoke stacks were belching back this city's best answer.
And the countryside was pocked, with all of those mail pouch posters thrown up on the rotting sideboards,
And these rundown stables, like the one that Christ was born in when the old world started dying and the new world started coming on,
And I'll sing his song...I'll sing his song in the land of my sojourn.
In the land of my sojourn,
And I will sing his song in the land of my sojourn.
