A thread was turning, turning slow
A clown wept at the death of his sin on burning coal
Cried out, "Nothing here ever stays the same."
As I turned to walk back the way I came
A barge was floating, floating slow
Burning coal for the sainthood of a martyr out in the snow
Carrying St Augustine through the shadows of the valley of death
I saw in him eyes that shone, of one who lived as he'd confessed
And the statesmen were whispering whispering slow
With quiet furtive hands refusing the crying down below
And history spoke, "The thread may turn as it always has done."
Repeating its words to a congregation of one
Many have died since and many have been born
And many shall see the day when a grey-hooded storm
Breaks down our pillars in its cruel merciless gust
And many will see the day when tall trees grow from the dust
And the thread keeps turning turning slow
As I wonder if the red hooks of time will surely show
That a hoot owl's songs from its dark lonesome hollow
Could ever match the cold cries of a coyote in the snow
