| Lyrics: | Morning comes, she follows the path to the river shore
Lightly sung, her song is the latch on
the morning's door
See the sun sparkle in the reeds; silver beads pass into the sea
She
comes from a town where they call her the woodcutter's daughter
She's brown as the bank where
she kneels down to gather her water
And she bears it away with a love that the river has taught
her
Let it flow, greatly flow, wide and clear
Round and round, the cut of the plow in
the furrowed field
Seasons round, the bushels of corn and the barley meal
Broken ground,
open and beckoning to the spring; black dirt live again
The plowman is broad as the back of
the land he is sowing
As he dances the circular track of the plow ever knowing
That the work
of his day measures more than the planting and growing
Let it grow, let it grow, greatly
yield
Chorus
What shall we say, shall we call it by a name
As well to count the
angels dancing on a pin
Water bright as the sky from which it came
And the name is on the
earth that takes it in
We will not speak but stand inside the rain
And listen to the thunder
shout
I am, I am, I am, I am
So it goes, we make what we made since the world
began
Nothing more, the love of the women, work of men
Seasons round, creatures great and
small, up and down, as we rise and fall
[chorus] |
