The hives are full of honey,
The firs are full of cones.
It's not just one year in fifty
That You roll away the stones.
You shake out all our attics,
Let the sunshine sit inside,
And flags fly in the windows
While evil runs and hides
Our feet beat out the the rhythm
Of the throbbing of Your pulse.
You set truth up like a flagpole
Flying over what is false.
And the slaves dance in the greenwood
But a few come to your door,
Press their ear against the lintel,
Whisper low: "Forevermore."
The firs are full of cones.
It's not just one year in fifty
That You roll away the stones.
You shake out all our attics,
Let the sunshine sit inside,
And flags fly in the windows
While evil runs and hides
Our feet beat out the the rhythm
Of the throbbing of Your pulse.
You set truth up like a flagpole
Flying over what is false.
And the slaves dance in the greenwood
But a few come to your door,
Press their ear against the lintel,
Whisper low: "Forevermore."