You cast off the chains,
That tied and bound
You're sick of the talk,
And won't carry their crowns
You hollowed the space,
Where they darkened the ground
With weary precision,
You lowered them down

Oh, preacher, believer,
Saint with a fever,
You timid only son
You'd better wipe that dust,
From the tip of your tongue,
And sing what ain't been sung

Cause I've seen better days
And I've seen the end
I saw grown men break,
I saw changed men mend
And I've been in deep;
Way over my head,
I heard the virgin weep,
While the Saviour bled

Oh, preacher, believer,
Saint with a fever,
You timid only son
You'd better wipe that dust,
From the tip of your tongue,
And sing what ain't been sung

Oh, preacher, believer,
Saint with a fever,
You timid only son
You'd better wipe that dust,
From the tip of your tongue,
And sing what ain't been sung

I cast off the chains,
That tied and bound
I'm sick of the talk,
I won't carry their crowns
I hollowed the space,
Where they darkened the ground
With weary precision,
I lowered them down