Though a rich man's heir, or a pauper's son
Underneath the cross we shall all be one
When the days shall wane, and the season's growing late
We'll stand at morning's gate

At the potters wheel, in the sculptors hand
We are being shaped for a better land
Where the winters chill, is the summers warming sun
and Life has just begun

Through a veil of tears, we have run the course
Thirsting for the well, of the purest source
Not the bitter taste, of the ground in which we're laid
For all have been re-made