And the moon is a sliver of silver, like a shaving that fell on the floor of a carpenter's shop,
And every house must have it's builder,
And I awoke in the house of God, where the windows are mornings and evenings stretched from the sun across the sky, north to south,
And on my way to early meeting I heard the rocks crying out,
I heard the rocks crying out.
Be praised for all your tenderness by these works of your hands,
Suns that rise and rains that fall, to bless and bring to life your land,
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that you have made,
Blue for the sky and the colour green that fills these fields with praise.
And the wrens have returned, and they're nesting in the hollow of that oak where his heart once had been,
And he lifts up his arms in a blessing for being born again,
And the streams are all swollen with winter,
Winter unfrozen and free to run away now,
And I'm amazed when I remember who it was that built this house and, with the rocks, I cry out.
Be praised for all your tenderness by these works of your hands,
Suns that rise and rains that fall, to bless and bring to life your land,
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that you have made,
Blue for the sky and the colour green,
Be praised for all your tenderness by these works of your hands,
Suns that rise and rains that fall, to bless and bring to life your land,
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that you have made,
Blue for the sky and the colour green that fills these fields with praise.
