ol' glory

Ol' Glory (by the psalters)

The killing fields are striped with red, white lies in between
While on a placid blue they float like islands safe from all they sowed beneath
High above that poor man's toil they lay in sacred isolation
Safely placed in rows they are stars of self-preservation

And on good Friday, (and all that glory,) and on good Friday...

In that corner sea serene fifty stars line up against you
Flying high but they will sink with the weight of a heavy millstone

No man is an island, no one can run from all they've done
In that deep blue they'll sink, fifty stars never to see the sun

And on good Friday those red stripes are carved into your back
And on good Friday those stars spangled your body blue and black
And on good Friday the stars and stripes were torn in two
And all that glory, all that ol' glory belongs alone to You