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Praying For Time

Woh, oh, yeah. 
Mm, doo, doo ooh, ah. 

These are the days of the open hand, 
they will not be the last. 

Look around now, these are the days 
of the beggars and the choosers. 

This is the year of the hungry man 
whose place is in the past, 

hand in hand with ignorance 
and legitimate excuses. 

The rich declare themselves poor, 
and most of us are not sure 

if we have too much, but we'll take our chances, 
'cause God stopped keeping score. 

I guess somewhere along the way 
He must have let us all out to play-ay; 

turned His back and all God's children 
crept out the back door. 

And it's hard to love, 
there's so much to hate, 

hanging on to hope 
when there is no hope to speak of. 

And the wounded skies above 
say it's much, much too late; 

well, maybe we should all be 
praying for time. 

Doo, doo ooh, ah. 
Mm, woh, woh, yeah. 
These are the days of the empty hand. 
Oh, you hold on to what you can, 

and charity is 
a coat you wear twice a year. 

This is the year of the guilty man. 
Your television takes a stand, 

and you find 
that what was over there is over here. 

So you scream from behind your door, 
say what's mine is mine and not yours. 

I may have too much, but I'll take my chances, 
'cause God stopped keeping score. 

And you cling to the things they sold you. 
Did you cover your eyes when they told you 

that He can't come back 
'cause He has no children to come back for? 

It's hard to love, 
there's so much to hate, 

hanging on to hope 
when there is no hope to speak of. 

And the wounded skies above 
say it's much too late, 

so maybe we should all be 
praying for time. 

Doo, doo, doo. 
Woh oh, yeah.