| There are ghosts out in the rain tonight
|
| High up in those ancient trees
|
| Lord, I’ve given up without a fight
|
| Another blind fool on his knees
|
| And all the gods that I’d abandoned here
|
| Begin to speak in simple tongues
|
| Lord, suddenly I’ve come to know
|
| There are no roads left to run
|
| Now it’s the hour of dogs a barking
|
| That’s what the old ones used to say
|
| It’s first light or it’s sundown
|
| Before the children cease their play
|
| And when the mountains glow like mission wine
|
| And turn gray like a Spanish roan
|
| Ten thousand eyes will stop to worship
|
| Then turn away and head on home
|
| And she is reaching out her arms tonight
|
| And, yes, my poverty is real
|
| I pray roses shall rain down again
|
| From Guadalupe on her hill
|
| And who am I to doubt these mysteries
|
| Cured in centuries of blood and candle smoke
|
| I am the least of all your pilgrims here
|
| But I am most in need of hope
|
| She appeared to Juan Diego
|
| And she left her image on his cape
|
| Five hundred years of sorrow
|
| Have not destroyed their deepest faith
|
| But here I am your ragged disbeliever
|
| Old doubting Thomas drowns in tears
|
| As I’ve watched your church sink through the earth
|
| Like a heart borne down through fear
|
| And she is reaching out her arms tonight
|
| And, yes, my poverty is real
|
| I pray roses shall rain down again
|
| From Guadalupe on her hill
|
| And who am I to doubt these mysteries?
|
| Cured in centuries of blood and candle smoke
|
| I am the least of all your pilgrims here
|
| But I am most in need of hope
|
| I am the least of all your pilgrims here
|
| But I am most in need of hope |