if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, i started writing the lyrics for the sequel to the greatest album ever made - jethro tull’s “a passion play” - a few months back. in it, ronnie senses a calling back to the mother church. he eventually winds up a monk in a monastery, but soon finds the rote prayers and observances ring a bit too hollow. so he winds up saying a prayer of his own, and carving his initials in a door alongside other heroes of the faith. but he's carving them there as a reminder not to venture down this road again.
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arisen
dusty books on weathered shelves what volumes they might speak
if given voices once again to turn another cheek
dog-eared pages waiting to unfold and read again
but silent for too many years since poets lifted pen
and if that poet came to life believing in the day
and dared once more to scribble lines one wonders what he'd say
would he see things in clearer light - a king's creation dawn
with silver cord still in his hand and half a century gone
so spin again the record round and let the passion play
to soothe the savage breast in all and light again the way
and share the timeless story with the hearts that now are cold
and free from one more stony grave a life it could not hold
an older man awak'ning now to see the younger's dreams
the dark light color shadows casting doubt on truth it seems
or maybe in a jester sleeve he kept a card or two
to pour a cup of wonder here and not share all he knew
so spin again the record round and let the passion play
to soothe the savage breast in all and light again the way
and share the timeless story with the hearts that now are cold
and free from one more stony grave a life it could not hold
middle ground
stony pebbles pressed beneath a bedroll on the ground
fitful sleep of princesses where peace is never found
numbered sheep each catch a glance then head to anywhere
to offer hope but leave it dashed and part no answers there
who twisted tight the rubber band and spun the plastic wheel
to never ever quite unwind and let the skies reveal
the mystic and the memory all touched but never seen
from hellfire to the heavenlies and all that lies between
the father was a man of power but i'm no chosen son
the stories long before my time had me in every one
standing once an only child a brother now appears
a lonesome way of suffering behind a veil of years
who opened up the bloody hand and drove a nail of steel
to never ever break away and let the skies reveal
the mystic and the memory all touched but never seen
from hellfire to the heavenlies and all that lies between
so read the written word of john that saves the poor old sod
and set your nervous gaze upon this living word of god
i'm with the millions in the stalls all time is moving slow
can do no more than take our seats with nowhere left to go
who dropped the glass of passing sand now broken with each seal
the lettered scrolls and numbered bowls - their secrets to reveal
the mystic and the memory all touched but never seen
from hellfire to the heavenlies and all that lies between
thru stained glasses
the strokes to form my letter
and all letters form my word
the words convey my meaning
sometimes hidden often blurred
father writes the story
and the son speaks every line
and the spirit moves the hearer
and the deafened ears are mine
am i part of those now hearing
am i one of those who see
am i left beyond the circle
are you there perhaps with me
you were there at our beginning
starting somehow at the end
are we inside looking outside
or just outside looking in
cards from one to fifty two
are cast down from the sky
and land in holy disarray
where drunken crows might fly
holy, evil, good and bad
they're sorted right and wrong
scripted with the hand of cain
unable to belong
am i part of those now hearing
am i one of those who see
am i left beyond the circle
are you there perhaps with me
you were there at our beginning
starting somehow at the end
are we inside looking outside
or just outside looking in
wittenberg (part 1)
my downcast eyes were fixed upon a stately wooden door
they drew upon its length from near the ceiling to the floor
old rusty metal hinges might not swing now anymore
to let the weary traveler enter in
to let this wandering traveler enter in
names carved in the woodgrain - peter, james had left their mark
men who stood brave at nicea just to lead us from the dark
st. teresa of avila there and even joan of arc
i read them all and read them all again
i read them all and read them all again
i held a lonely candle having journeyed through the night
showing places for my steps to go beneath its flick'ring light
my heart had leapt in hope when this old door came into sight
but my mind was only stuck on where i’d been
my mind was only stuck on where i’d been
for his pages were now torn and tattered
weathered thru the years
but i took each to heart one by one
i heard the hammer’s pounding
still sounding in my ears
martin luther, can i have it when you’re done?
can i have that hammer when you’re done?
i ran my dirty fingertips along the weathered grain
to try and touch the mem’ries that had left a bloody stain
where centuries had passed but beating heartbeats still remained
and i wondered if i’d hear my own again
i wondered if i’d hear my own again
i wondered if these heroes had wrestled through the years
with questions with no answers - only hopes and doubts and fears
and shake their fists at one who claims to be the God who hears
could my voice ever rise above their din?
could my voice ever rise above their din?
for his pages were now torn and tattered
weathered thru the years
but i took each to heart one by one
i heard the hammer’s pounding
still sounding in my ears
martin luther, can i have it when you’re done?
can i have that hammer when you’re done?
lauds and midnight matins
lauds and midnight matins where the darkness runs so deep
bell tolls in the distance as i'm drifting off to sleep
and the dream that overtakes me climbing cliff walls far too steep
finds me reaching to the heavens for a promise i can keep
lauds and midnight matins all their lines so long rehearsed
far too often too familiar fail to quench the spirit's thirst
done in rote and strict observance echo hollow as the soul
locked in garments, saintly collars where the prison takes its toll
lauds and midnight matins soon the sunrise breaks the day
looking 'round at earth in stillness in the quiet where i pray
see the rocks and stones a-crying using words i've never known
kneeling down upon the grasses lifting words at last my own
wittenberg (part 2)
rahab’s scarlet letter was written in her hair
and david sang in sadness for the sins that we all share
spurgeon and john edwards even calvin caught my stare
i looked for where my new life might begin
i looked for where my new life might begin
stephen, john and mary - even father abraham
all their names looked down upon me where i stood just as i am
tears were set a-flowing as emotions burst the dam
left alone outside the new jerusalem
left alone outside the new jerusalem
for his pages were now torn and tattered
weathered thru the years
but i took each to heart one by one
i heard the hammer’s pounding
still sounding in my ears
martin luther, can i have it when you’re done?
can i have that hammer when you’re done?
set within great stonework sturdy arch a mighty frame
no path to take me elsewhere but the one from which i came
i took a weathered knife and carved the letters of my name
to remind me if i passed this way again
to remind me if i passed this way again
arisen - reprise
so spin again the record round and hear the passion play
with words to stir the lifeless soul and wash our sins away
and share the timeless story in the hearts with courage bold
and free from one more stony grave a life it could not hold
obligatory tagged ending
there was a rush along the fulham road
into the ever passion play ... two.