The Wheatfields East of Eden
Déjà Vu
If Jesus came back, the whole world
watching—
they’d turn their backs, their lord forgotten.
Only the lepers, in their lair,
would crawl before him, show him care,
for whose tender hands could heal;
and once their skin was smooth again,
they’d run back to the hills.
Good luck next time, Jesus,
my friend.
They'll never understand.
Good luck next time, little lamb,
when the whole world has you found;
I'll see you when the trumpet sounds.
And when you come, say they can sin,
Say there are no rules.
Tell them they can lie and steal,
and go to Heaven, too.
Tell them that there is no hell,
therefore no need to fear.
Tell them that they all can make,
Heaven on Earth, right here;
no need to wait for paradise,
nor preachy prophet hear.
Better luck next time, my friend.
They just don't understand—
the Sermon on the Mount, itself,
dissolved in priceless air,
That day ago, two thousand years,
words befell their deafened ears.
and then got worse for wear.
If you came back to Earth, today,
and wished for blind to see,
you couldn't tell a parable,
on national T.V. Better luck next time,
my friend.
Maybe they will see.
And hand in hand walk with you,
on the shores of Galilee.
In the times before you come,
I'll do what I can do.
Just to fill the void you left,
I'll write a sermon too.
Blessed are the blind,
for though they do not see,
they get to hear the sound of birds,
and feel a lukewarm sea.
Blessed are the deaf,
though symphonies hear none;
they still can share, and get to stare,
at the beauty of the sun.
Blessed are the ruined,
whose lives have gone awry;
for at one moment, in their life,
they smiled and watched the sky.
Blessed are the ones long dead,
their debts and troubles paid;
who suffer no more, the endless war,
at peace lay in a grave.
Blessed is a child in pain,
his fettered limbs,
and weakened state;
For soon he'll see the majesty,
of Heaven's golden gates.
Blessed are the dying men,
who all their long life gave,
to those in sin, again, again,
the Road to God is paved.
Blessed are the sufferers,
who shake all night and day,
because one day, come what may,
all their suffering goes away.
Perhaps one day, someone may find,
and read these sincere words of mine,
and to me say the same:
better luck next time, my friend,
there's no need to explain.
Silence is the voice of God;
soon with no refrain.
watching—
they’d turn their backs, their lord forgotten.
Only the lepers, in their lair,
would crawl before him, show him care,
for whose tender hands could heal;
and once their skin was smooth again,
they’d run back to the hills.
Good luck next time, Jesus,
my friend.
They'll never understand.
Good luck next time, little lamb,
when the whole world has you found;
I'll see you when the trumpet sounds.
And when you come, say they can sin,
Say there are no rules.
Tell them they can lie and steal,
and go to Heaven, too.
Tell them that there is no hell,
therefore no need to fear.
Tell them that they all can make,
Heaven on Earth, right here;
no need to wait for paradise,
nor preachy prophet hear.
Better luck next time, my friend.
They just don't understand—
the Sermon on the Mount, itself,
dissolved in priceless air,
That day ago, two thousand years,
words befell their deafened ears.
and then got worse for wear.
If you came back to Earth, today,
and wished for blind to see,
you couldn't tell a parable,
on national T.V. Better luck next time,
my friend.
Maybe they will see.
And hand in hand walk with you,
on the shores of Galilee.
In the times before you come,
I'll do what I can do.
Just to fill the void you left,
I'll write a sermon too.
Blessed are the blind,
for though they do not see,
they get to hear the sound of birds,
and feel a lukewarm sea.
Blessed are the deaf,
though symphonies hear none;
they still can share, and get to stare,
at the beauty of the sun.
Blessed are the ruined,
whose lives have gone awry;
for at one moment, in their life,
they smiled and watched the sky.
Blessed are the ones long dead,
their debts and troubles paid;
who suffer no more, the endless war,
at peace lay in a grave.
Blessed is a child in pain,
his fettered limbs,
and weakened state;
For soon he'll see the majesty,
of Heaven's golden gates.
Blessed are the dying men,
who all their long life gave,
to those in sin, again, again,
the Road to God is paved.
Blessed are the sufferers,
who shake all night and day,
because one day, come what may,
all their suffering goes away.
Perhaps one day, someone may find,
and read these sincere words of mine,
and to me say the same:
better luck next time, my friend,
there's no need to explain.
Silence is the voice of God;
soon with no refrain.