These are the days of the open handThey will not be the lastLook around nowThese are the days of the beggars and the choosers
This is the year of the hungry manWhose place is in the pastHand in hand with ignoranceAnd legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poorAnd most of us are not sureIf we have too much but we'll take our chances'Cause God's stopped keeping scoreI guess somewhere along the wayHe must have let us all out to playTurned His back and all God's childrenCrept out the back door
And it's hard to loveThere's so much to hateHanging on to hopeWhen there is no hope to speak ofAnd the wounded skies aboveSay it's much, too much, too lateWell, maybe we should all be praying for time
To-do-do, oh-ohMmm, whoa-whoa, yeah
These are the days of the empty handOh, you hold on to what you canAnd charity is a coat you wear twice a yearThis is the year of the guilty manYour television takes a standAnd you find that what was over there is over here
So you scream from behind your doorSay what's mine is mine and not yoursI may have too much but I'll take my chances'Cause God's stopped keeping scoreAnd you cling to the things they sold youDid you cover your eyes when they told youThat he can't come back 'cause he has no childrenTo come back for?
It's hard to loveThere's so much to hateHanging on to hopeWhen there is no hope to speak ofAnd the wounded skies aboveSay it's much too lateSo maybe we should all be praying for time