[Verse 1] The ledger is opened to pages that bleed, Counting the cost of the desperate greed. The Howell has records of names that are gone, Who won’t see the light of another new dawn. The Howey is quiet, the horses are still, Stabled in shadow beneath the dark hill. The smoke has retreated, the iron is cold, Leaving a story that must now be told. We write in the margin, we write in the space, Of all of the sorrow that covers this place. [Chorus] The ink is a tear on the parchment of time, For every broken and reasonless crime. The Howell to reckon, the Howey to grieve, For all of the burdens we now must relieve. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, Are stained with the memory of terrible pain. We mend what is broken, we count what remains, And wash out the history of deep, bloody stains. [Verse 2] The Howell is checking the loss of the land, With a shaking and tired and heavy-set hand. The Howey is tending the graves in the row, With nowhere to turn and with nowhere to go. The industry pauses, the engine is dead, With nothing but silence and sorrow instead. We look at the ledger and turn to the wall, Hearing the echo of history’s fall. A union is mended, but seams are still wide, With the ghosts of the brothers who fought on each side. [Chorus] The ink is a tear on the parchment of time, For every broken and reasonless crime. The Howell to reckon, the Howey to grieve, For all of the burdens we now must relieve. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, Are stained with the memory of terrible pain. We mend what is broken, we count what remains, And wash out the history of deep, bloody stains. [Bridge] The nation is starting the process to heal, But the wounds are too deep for the turning of wheel. The Howell records all the debts that are owed, While Howey clears wreckage away from the road. We are the survivors of all that we knew, Trying to make all the broken things new. The ledger is honest, the ledger is bare, With the weight of the loss that we’re forced now to bear. We keep our own counsel, we keep our own way, Waiting for sunlight to come to the day. [Verse 3] The evening is silent, the candle is low, Watching the embers begin their soft glow. The eighteenth song is a hymn for the lost, Counting the tally and counting the cost. The Howell is finished, the quill is set down, In the quiet of farmhouse and quiet of town. The Howey is resting, the legacy waits, At the end of the long and the hard-driven gates. We’ve survived the fire and survived the deep rain, With the hope of the future to soften the pain. [Chorus] The ink is a tear on the parchment of time, For every broken and reasonless crime. The Howell to reckon, the Howey to grieve, For all of the burdens we now must relieve. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, Are stained with the memory of terrible pain. We mend what is broken, we count what remains, And wash out the history of deep, bloody stains. [Outro] The bell toll is finished, the evening is gray, We put all the memories of war far away. The Howell is scribe, and the Howey is stride, With the scars of the nation kept deep inside. The eighteenth part is written in grey, As we turn from the night to the light of the day.
