Someone must’ve lit a hand of glory
I’ve been asleep for days
Someone must’ve lit a hand of glory
And stole my life away
Back in the morn when the sun was rising
Spices hid the rotten meat
I haven’t got a speck of bread to barter
now the sun beats down on me
How, so half-alive, might I subsist?
When I find that Cockaigne don’t exist?
When,
The hand keeps burning on
Burning on
The hand keeps burning on
Just for me!
That wheel keeps turning on
Turning on
That wheel keeps turning on
But not for me!
And it spins
Along
I think of what will come when the sun is falling,
And if that wheel will spin
And if it won’t, am I left here crying
Lost in my own chagrin?
Does the seed ever plan to grow?
And of its bearings could it ever know?
(A Capella)
When, the hand keeps burning on
Burning on
The hand keeps burning on
Just for me!
That wheel keeps turning on
Turning on
That wheel keeps turning on
But not for me!
And it spins

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