There's a great and mighty sadness in the world of disbelief 
	when an aching child alone has gone to pray.
	But an overwhelming wonder in his darkness and his grief
		brings the miracle of Spirit to his way.


"But we're born alone in emptiness," the cynic tells his son,
	"And we die alone no richer than we came.
	For 'tis better in a pauper's world to take the prize and run
		than to sit in pious emptiness and blame.

"Give your children what they're asking for and lose their due respect,
	give society no taxes if you can.
	See, there's no one better suited than yourself in retrospect
		for the total understanding of the Plan."

	 As the winds blow empty and the winds blow cold
	So the Voice grows silent and the Voice grows old.
	  From the womb of the East in Eternity's light
	      Grows a chorus of Voices in the Night.

Through the moving of the mountains and the shaping of the plains
	thus our peoples in their wisdom claimed to know
	how the Mother of the Planet meant we comfort all our pains
		how the Father of the Heavens meant we grow.

How we stood before the prophets from an earlier demise
	with interpretations only we might give
	how the fineries of logic bring the truth from out the lies
		boasting singular commitment that we live.

Now the message of the Vision seems to blurr and turn and bend
	but we've trusted it to bring us where we've been.
	So then, why should we believe it when we hear we're near an end?;
		Must we question all we've given, all we've seen?

	  So the winds blow empty and the winds blow cold
	 As the Voice grows silent and the Voice grows old
	   From the womb of the East in Eternity's light
	     Grows that Chorus Enchanted of the Night.

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