Hold my head Hold my faith Hold my eyes to the sky. When my scythe has, has me cut in God’s great, great dust storm.
Take my sins Wash them clean Pour a drink on my bones And watch them, watch them burn in God’s great, great dust storm
I’ll be your gimp Whipped through the skin In the hour that you come There are greedy crows in God’s great, great dust storm
I walked the line In my best black suit Through fields in sweet quiet mourn Please let the faithful come forth in God’s great, great dust God’s great, great dust God’s great, great dust storm
