From the mountain comes a soul
And the stones grow up like trees
From the mountain comes a soul
And the stones grow up like trees
All blues hail Mary with her roses
But you're their masterpiece
Cut away each blade of grass
Our feet cannot tramp down
The limb of every hanging tree
That time's left hanging round
All blues sing that love is light not glory
A story, not a crown
I won't be death's sad trophy now
While I still lie awake
I won't be death's sad trophy now
While I still lie awake
All the blues sing of love and death and you
As chances yet to take
How dark this bit of light so late
That falls upon your breast
How dark this bit of light so late
That falls upon your breast
All blues and grace by God, and I
Will have to learn the rest
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