Тональность: C major•
Verse 1
F#
The trumpet lies in the dust.
The wind is weary.
The light is dead.
Ah, the evil day.
Come, fighters, carrying your flags
and singers with your war songs.
Come pilgrims of the march,
hurrying on your journey,
the trumpet lies in the dust,
waiting for us.
I was on my way to the temple
with my evening offerings,
seeking for a place of rest
after the day's dusty toil,
Hoping my hurts would be healed,
and the stains in my
garment washed white,
when I found thy trumpet lying in the dust.
Was it not the hour for me
to light my evening lamp?
Had not the night sung
its lullaby to the stars?
O thou blood -red rose,
my poppies of sleep
have failed and faded.
I was certain my wanderings were over
and my debts all paid.
when suddenly I came upon thy
trumpet lying in the dust.
Strike my drowsy heart
with thy spell of youth.
Let my joy and life blaze up in fire.
Let the shafts of awakening
fly through the heart of night
and a thrill of dread, shake,
blindness, and palsy,
I have come to raise thy trumpet
from the dust.
Sleep is no more for me.
My walk shall be through
showers of arrows.
Some shall run out of their houses
and come to my side.
Some shall weep,
some in their beds shall toss
and groan in dim dreams,
for tonight thy trumpet shall be sounded.
From Thee I have asked peace,
only to find shame.
Now I stand before Thee,
help me to put on my armor.
Let hard blows of trouble
strike fire into my life.
Let my heart beat in pain,
the drum of Thy victory.
My hands shall be utterly emptied
to take up thy trumpet.
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