Every line on his face, a page in a tattered scrapbook of dreams and lost graces,
Each one a story of villains and glories,
An everyday tale of corruption in small places,
“Where did my heroes go?” he said,
Where is the touch that heals all us battle-worn and breathless men of steel?
Pray for the day when every chain that binds, and the demons who have held you down, lie buried in stony ground,
Pray for the day.
He said, “I know this razor’s edge is leading me down, down, but I fear it’s leading me under,
And a cold, soundless wind has burrowed under my skin and proceeded to seize my heart and terrify me with thunder,”
“It’s so cold outside,” he said, “bitter cold out here,
And I once thought love came by, but that was another year and another time.”
Pray for the day when every chain that binds, and the demons who held me down, lie buried in stony ground.
I’ll wait for the day, (I’ll wait for the day)
I’ll hope for the day, (I’ll hope and I’ll pray)
I’ll pray for the day, ooh.
And I’ve searched for the prophets and the messengers of God, but all I found was a stolen crown.
Greatest story ever told, told by some soon grows cold, cruel and bloodless.
“So many lies,” I said, “like coins in an empty well, lifted from a dead man’s eyes as tears from Heaven fell.”
I’ll pray for the day when every chain that binds, and the demons who held us down, lie buried in stony ground.
I’ll wait for the day, (I’ll wait for the day)
I’ll hope for the day, (I’ll hope and I’ll pray)
I’ll pray for the day, oh yes.
