Our ears are wide open
Our mouths all open
To feed on prophecies
To appease our fantasies
Lay hands on me dear pastor
My spiritual doctor
Touch to release my desire
Of all that I inquire
Where has our faith departed
Why is our faith retarded?
Do we dwell not on him no more
To be forever more
Some swing from tree to tree
Like monkeys in a spree
Combing new churches
Igniting new searches
Lay hands on me dear Prophet
Grant me life from your pocket
I know our prayer at times is lame
Our selves we cannot blame
Our bond with him will hold
If we can but be to our selves be bold
Bow our heads and brace ourselves
Reading his word, praying ourselves
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