Across the hills, a distant shrill,
A cry of pain and sorrows deep,
A prisoner freed comes home to find
The land he left no more to be.
And wanders lost on hill and vale
In search of old familiar paths,
He finds that where they ought to be
Is naught but thorns and high grown grass.
When upon the second day
The sun doth make the shadows long,
A silhouette with head in hands
Awaits the moon's dull glow til dawn.
What good is freedom to that man,
If freedom is no more
Than a return to the old paths
Where his sentence first began?
For we are only free,
When free indeed
We turn our backs and walk away
From paths that lead back to the place
Where our sentence first began.
Thank God!
Thank God!
Thank God for thorns and high grown grass.
