Lyrics

What have you done these last thirty years with all this passing time? Were the hours like thieves in the Saint Lazare Station, picking your pockets, robbing you blind? Did you stand on the platform watching the trains roll away with a curse on your breath and the specter of death at the end of another day? The light breaks through in mysterious ways. What have I done these last thirty years? These lines define my face. I have guarded the gates of this fragile oasis. I keep the flame alive in this place and I stand up to power, even when it causes me pain. Sometimes I’ve forgotten my own name. The breathe of life to the clay. The light breaks through in mysterious ways. Jesus is late, and Lazarus raised. What have you done these last thirty years? Who’s behind the bar? Did you let your illusions choke and contain you? Did you order a Molotov cocktail in a mason jar? Did you sit in your armchair thinking you had your own thoughts, screaming orders for a battle long since lost? A flower breaks through the frost. No I have not slept these last thirty years except when I needed some rest. I laugh at the thieves in the Saint Lazare Station. I toss them my coins. I consider them blessed and I sit in the cafe car as the station disappears, smiling through the curtain of my tears. Thirty years slip away. The breath of the maker gives life to the clay. The temple destroyed in a furious blaze. Jesus is late and Lazarus raised. A flower is pushing its way through the frost. We are not lost, we are not lost, we are not lost, we are not lost, we are not lost, we are not lost, we are not lost, we are the light breaks through in mysterious ways.