| I looked, and could not see my hand
|
| held up before my eyes.
|
| The clouds of war were gathering
|
| across the shrouded skies.
|
| The Barons and the Princes
|
| and the Ace in armoured fist,
|
| hold up the crumbling prison
|
| of the Truth which they resist.
|
| The willing flame of apathy
|
| is fanned in many homes;
|
| the independent voices
|
| speak in harmonising tones.
|
| When you can feed the fortunes
|
| of a man you’ve never seen,
|
| The time has come to beat
|
| your ploughs into a War Machine.
|
| Tonight We ride on Bethlehem,
|
| to where our troubles began.
|
| Two thousand years we’ll blow away;
|
| God send the prophet again.
|
| Tonight We ride, on Bethlehem,
|
| The only man who might have helped
|
| suffered, and we watched Him die.
|
| I’ve noticed lately that the news
|
| is unbelievable.
|
| The whole illusion they prepare
|
| is working rather well.
|
| The people must be kept amused;
|
| if they should ever rise
|
| our precious empire will
|
| dissolve before our very eyes.
|
| Tonight We ride on Bethlehem,
|
| to where our troubles began.
|
| Two thousand years we’ll blow away;
|
| God send the prophet again
|
| Tonight We ride, on Bethlehem,
|
| to where We first turned aside
|
| The only man who might have helped
|
| suffered, and we watched Him die.
|
| God send the prophet again. |