(Chorus — first) Oh, Father of the mountain, Oh, Mother of the well, take this body if You must, but leave the name as well. I have walked through fire and frost, I have bled on every stone, if You still keep score up there, then count this one as Your own. (Verse 1) The village sleeps with one eye open, the river talks in a cracked old tongue. Grandmother said the saints get hungry when the harvest comes in wrong. I buried my brother under the walnut, I washed the dirt from his mouth with wine, and I swore to God I wouldn't ask again for a mercy that never arrives on time. The priest still rings that rusted bell like it can scare the dark from the hill, but I have heard the dark answer back and it does not fear a man who kneels. So I stand here with my hands unprayed, with my throat full of unfinished hymns, and I tell You straight: I am not Your lamb. I am the wolf that learned Your name. (Chorus) Oh, Father of the mountain, Oh, Mother of the well, take this body if You must, but leave the name as well. I have walked through fire and frost, I have bled on every stone, if You still keep score up there, then count this one as Your own. (Verse 2) They sold the land for a handful of coins and called it progress with a straight face. The orchard burned and the well went black and nobody even said His name. I still remember the winter of bones when the bread was mixed with bark and snow, and her voice was the only heat we had left. Don't you dare tell me this is a test. Don't you dare call this a holy plan. If You made the wolf and You made the lamb, then You made the knife in a man's right hand. I will not kiss the ring of a king who never once came down from the cloud. I will not thank the sky for the flood that drowned the only house I ever loved. (Chorus) Oh, Father of the mountain, Oh, Mother of the well, take this body if You must, but leave the name as well. I have walked through fire and frost, I have bled on every stone, if You still keep score up there, then count this name as Your own. (Verse 3) There is a chapel on the ridge where the icons peel like old skin. I lit a candle for the ones who left and I lit another for the ones still in. The wax ran down like a thin white river and I watched it die without a prayer, because I have learned that light is cheap and the dark does not care if you stare. So if You are listening, you stubborn God, if You still keep a seat at the table of men, then sit with me in this ruined field and tell me why the good ones end. I will not pretend I do not shake. I will not pretend I do not swear. I will not pretend this world is kind just because You painted it from up there. *(Chorus) Oh, Father of the mountain, Oh, Mother of the well, take this body if You must, but leave the name as well. I have walked through fire and frost, I have bled on every stone, if You still keep score up there, then count this one as Your own. *(Bridge) Damn the silence that follows the hymn. Damn the saint who never comes down. Damn the man who sells his own blood and still calls the mountain holy ground. I am not asking You to save me. I am asking You to look. Look at the field. Look at the well. Look at the name You never took. *(Final chorus — lifted, almost a shout) Oh, Father of the mountain, Oh, Mother of the well, take this body if You must, but leave the name as well. I have devoted through fire and frost, I have bled on every stone, if You still keep score up there — then count this one as Your own. Count this one as Your own. Count this one as Your own.
